


Dear Lord

by escspace



Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conspiracy, Drama, Gen, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2020-12-14 15:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21018266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace
Summary: “The Lord has no heirs. Why is that?” And centuries later, that question remained.A Lukedonian political drama leading up to the betrayal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This AU was discussed in a group DM with an_earl. If you haven’t read her latest fic “Unidentified Human, lurking in the woods” you totally should. It’s great and slots rather nicely into this AU as well.

It started as merely benign curiosity: “The Lord has no heirs. Why is that?” And centuries later, that question remained.

But first, the beginning. A long, long time ago, with humanity only as old as a mayfly, a very, very old Lord said, “Let us gather and stow ourselves away. These humans and their infant souls need room to grow, and once they are able to stand on their own two feet, we may return on equal footing.” Godhood, to that old Lord, was so very ostentatious, so those who were once hailed as almighty forces of the still unknown universe by those still naive and young, hid themselves on a quiet island away from all else. That became their new home, and that home was later called Lukedonia.

Kinship was the rule of law. The title of Lord was passed from parent to child, and the same applied to the clan leaders, the heads of powerful families who carried their ancestors’ souls in the form of weapons, a symbol of their highly regarded heritage. Those who saw them bowed. Purebloods were the powerful, and blood ties were gospel. That was how things were.

Now, there was a Lord who sat on his throne with his face leaning into a hand and his long, pale blonde hair draped over his shoulders and stately black coat. He greeted all with an easy and benign smile. He was friendly and well liked, day after day, year after year, century after century. Ragnarok was his weapon, was his royalty. He summoned it and playfully drew curves in the air with its point in front of his uneventful and stagnant throne. “Really, what good is this thing?” he asked no one in particular. Just as unceremoniously, he vanished the sword, accomplishing nothing.

The Lord had no heirs, but the previous Noblesse had two, brother and sister: Raizel and Raskreia, who came into being when their mother entered her eternal slumber and split her soul in two. They took after each other, hair as smooth and inky black as the depths of the ocean and personalities as quiet as the night sky. Raizel held his head high, but Raskreia held her head higher. Raizel gazed out the window, but Raskreia found that rather dull. When the Lord paid a visit and they were still very young, it was she who opened the door to their lonely, quiet mansion and greeted him eye to eye, as if she alone bore the pride of the House Of the Noblesse.

The Lord smiled at her.

She did not lower her eyes even in bow. “Lord,” she said in her placid voice, deep and mature for a child. “What business do you have to go through the trouble of visiting the Noblesse’s home?”

The Lord’s smile grew, and he looked at her with precise and unguarded friendliness. “Does it not get lonely out here?”

“I have my brother.”

“Oh, but does he not also want to play with others? Raskreia, how would you like to play princess for a day? And your brother Raizel can play prince.”

Raskreia looked at him in a scrutinizing silence. Then, she said, “I will invite him.”

The two pale, dark haired children, cursed with their bloodline, walked to the Lord’s palace hand in hand.

“The Noblesse,” Gejutel uttered as they entered through the great, grand doors. He was youthful and strapping, his silky white hair tied back in a short braid, his signature black stripes woven into it. Young for a clan leader—he was only a teenager just having reached his age of majority—the man already had the demeanor of someone who had lived too long and was frankly tired of whatever frivolous project his lord was surely planning next. He bowed at the two.

Collectively, Raizel and Raskreia were known as the Noblesse, but “Today, they are Prince and Princess,” the Lord told Gejutel as he grinned widely. “Let’s have a ball! Everyone is invited!”

Gejutel might have sighed with exasperation, but he was dutiful, and soon enough, the vast room was filled with people, some eager, others not so much. It wasn’t as if anyone had anything better to do, the Lord thought.

The Kertias were the first to arrive, as expected. The clan leader smiled gracefully behind her mask, her golden hair swished with quiet performance as she bowed deeply, extending a willowy arm towards the two children. “My princess, my prince,” she played along. “What a treat to see you among us this evening.” Gently, she pushed her son forward.

He watched them with quiet, observant eyes, at a standstill. His mother poked him in the side, and he got the message, bowing as well, a hand over his chest. “...Princess, Prince…” Ragar greeted. He straightened. “This is a fascinating game the Lord has prepared for us,” he stated flatly yet genuinely. He said nothing more afterwards as the three children stared at each other.

“Lord, this is rather…” Gejutel was less enthusiastic about the arrangement.

The Blersters entered next.

Lady Kertia laughed her charming, twinkling laugh. She leaned down, pushed her son further forward by his shoulders, and whispered, “Oh my, look Ragar, a suspicious someone has entered. Surely, it is your duty to protect your prince and princess.”

“That is only Krasis Blerster, Mother.”

“We are playing pretend, Ragar.”

“Yes, Mother.”

They watched as Ragar quietly approached and bowed to Lady Blerster, who towered over his small, slim form. Her shoulders were broad and muscled, her chest generous, and her hair in short, soft curls. She smiled approvingly at Ragar, who then proceeded to turn to her son Krasis and flatly and calmly hurl accusations of treason at him.

It was not long before Krasis had a fistful of Ragar’s hair.

“Hahaha…” Lady Kertia gently and sheepishly patted her cheek.

Krasis’s mother yanked him off of Ragar by the arm.

Ragar was quickly by his own mother’s side again, his short ponytail now undone. “Krasis does not enjoy this game,” he concluded.

Lady Blerster hurried over and bowed. “My apologies,” she said seriously. “Krasis is very...passionate about his duties.” She presented the band of leather that was used to tie Ragar’s hair to him. “I believe this is yours, young Ragar.”

Ragar held out his hand and accepted the hair tie. He lowered his head respectfully. “Thank you, Lady Blerster.”

Then, Raskreia stepped forward. Her bold voice cut in the air clearly as she addressed Krasis, who was now wearing a simultaneously bewildered and embarrassed expression. “Krasis Blerster, you have wounded one of your princess’s knights.” Raskreia stood taller and steadier. “You must pay with your blood, lest you forfeit your honor and the honor of your lineage.”

Before Krasis could mortally wound himself and bleed all over the floor, however, the Lord’s voice boomed in laughter. “Indeed, you make a fine princess, Raskreia.”

“Are you sure we should be encouraging this, Lord?” Gejutel muttered, mostly to himself.

“Oh, Gejutel, you’re always so serious. This is harmless fun,” Lady Kertia said. She smiled down at her son. “Isn’t that so, Ragar?”

“Indeed, Mother.” His glance drifted over to Raizel, who had remained silent the entire time as a part of the background. “Prince Raizel, are you not partaking in the Lord’s game?”

Raizel blinked innocently, like he did not expect to be included in the festivities. Being addressed seemed almost like a novelty to him. “I...will watch,” he said quietly. He was a shy one.

The event proceeded without much more violence as the others arrived.

Raskreia, the skilled politician, managed to rally the other children into a parade behind her, and they marched around the edges of the room on a fantastical crusade to nowhere.

The Lord bent down next to Raizel, who was doing a fine job of blending into the walls. “Will you not play with the others, Raizel? Look, your sister is having so much fun.”

“I cannot be a prince, Lord,” Raizel said quietly, staring forward and watching. “If we are both prince and princess, who will be the Noblesse? I cannot abandon the duty passed on to me by my mother.”

The Lord stood up, breathing out and smiling a crooked, wry smile at Raizel. “It appears you have inherited more than her title, Raizel. You have her stubbornness as well.”

A slow hum came from Raizel. He lowered his head, blushing.

Suddenly, there was the banging of the doors being slammed open and the commotion of people being shoved aside. The children’s parade had stopped, and all eyes were on the bloodied central knight stumbling towards the Lord. He fell to his knees. “Lord! Sir Agvain, he has—he has  _ infected _ .”

All at once, nothing seemed to be very much fun. “Infected a human?”

“Multiple.”

“What?”

There was an uproar as broken bodies the color of rot and broken souls poured past the doors. They were shrieking and manic, fangs bared and eyes blazing red.

“He’s brought them  _ here? _ ” Gejutel uttered. His face creased with disgust like he was witnessing something beyond perverse. Gejutel knew contracts and knew bonds; he had had a couple himself with the rare humans he came across, and Gejutel knew that what had taken place between the Agvain clan leader and these bound and violated souls was not a true contract.

Others knew similarly that the only relief from this was death.

Humans, broken beyond humanity, flooded the floor and blindly attacked anyone they recognized as alive. They were felled like flies, overpowered by the clan leaders present, but there were more and more. Blood and gore stained the floors of the party.

Above the hoard, Sir Agvain appeared, fanged and wielding Dragus. He pointed his blade at the Lord. “For too long, we have been chained to this miniscule and isolated land, when our powers extend far beyond what you limit us to,” he announced with the finality of a suicide mission. “Do you not see how mindless and malleable they are—the humans—and yet you and those who have sat in that throne before you say that  _ we _ must make way for  _ them? _ ” His eyes glowed and he snarled with venom. “Why call yourself Lord if you are going to bow before something as pathetic as a human?”

In the middle of it all—all the used and human bodies—Raizel stepped forward, his shoes touched with blood. He looked up, his eyes luminesced, and he crushed the Agvain clan leader to the floor.

“The Noblesse, a mere child…” he said through gritted teeth as he was forced to his knees. Then, he smiled cynically. “If you defend them, then you will forever remain a child, knowing nothing and learning nothing. But go ahead, kill me, and serve your pathetic duty and live the rest of your pathetic life on this damned island.”

Motionless and expressionless, Raizel summoned his will and the monstrous power of his lineage. Blood erupted in a wide spire as the very air was glazed red. He crushed the clan leader until he was nothing but red dust, and that red dust became nothing, but even his soul seemed to laugh at Raizel and his so called duty as it disappeared. The redness in the air and the glow in his eyes died down, and there was only silence on the bloodied and gore stricken floor.

Just beyond the open doorway, staring back at Raizel with wide, shaken eyes was little Urokai Agvain, now parentless and the youngest clan leader ever remembered. A horror passed over his face. Then, he ran up to Raizel with a desperation that could only be tragic on a child and threw himself to his knees onto the floor. His small, trembling hands became bloodied as he lowered his head at Raizel’s shoe. “Please forgive me, Sir Raizel!” he cried with shaking breath. “Please forgive my clan! I—I, Urokai Agvain, swear loyalty to the Noblesse and the Lord and Lukedonia. I promise, as clan leader, I will lead the Agvain Clan in the right direction.  _ Please… _ ”

Raizel, at that moment, looked just as terrified as the redheaded boy begging for his life. He was frozen.

Someone stepped forward and grasped his hand. Raskreia gave it a squeeze and looked with a firm determination at Raizel.

“I…forgive you,” Raizel said quietly, because that was what he was supposed to say.

Heavy tears fell from Urokai’s young face as he looked up with trembling relief. “Thank you!” He lowered his head again. “Thank you, thank you, Sir!” He thanked like he begged, groveling. It was difficult to watch.

A quiet bitterness sunk into the Lord’s face.

The festivities were over.

The following day, further contracts were banned.

* * *

Raskreia opened the doors to the quiet study where her brother remained, day after day, before that window.

“I am going to the palace,” she said. “Will you not come?”

“I decline…” Raizel said.

“Hmph.” She turned on her heel, her black cloak swishing with the motion. The sound of her boots echoed against the halls as she marched away.

“ _ Princess! _ ” The Lord greeted as she opened the doors.

“You continue to call me that even when I have come of age. That game is long since over, Lord.”

The Lord leaned forward in his throne. “Oh, but perhaps it is  _ especially _ because you have come of age.” He smiled mysteriously and settled back again. “Raizel remains in his home?”

Raskreia nodded.

He sighed long and lightheartedly. “He really is stubborn, that guy. All I’m asking is that he step outside from time to time. But, Raskreia, what exciting news have you brought for me today?”

Perhaps it was the shift in her eyes, or the way her lips dropped into a slight frown, but a seriousness passed between them, and the Lord noticed, straightening himself and listening attentively as Raskreia said, “A generation has passed between most of the clan leaders, even the youngest, Urokai Agvain, has surpassed his age of majority, and Lagus Tradio has finally decided to have a child himself to eventually succeed him. I have heard discussion among the elders, Lagus Tradio and Roctis Kravei; they question why you alone remain without heirs. They are worried.”

The Lord laughed airily. “Oh, that old business.” He tilted his head. “What is the rush with having a child?” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. “We nobles have all the time in the world. Perhaps that is the only thing we have, time…” He grinned, full of mystery. “People are far too concerned with their bloodline—with their ‘purity,’ but why does it matter so much, to be ‘pure?’” Something sparkled in his eyes. “But this is such dreary discussion. How about something more fun? You know what is fun? Presents. Raskreia, how would you like to have Ragnarok? I can give it to you.”

Raskreia’s face twitched in dumbfounded surprise. “Lord...are you aware of what you are saying?”

“Oh, of course; these words are coming out of my own mouth, are they not? Think of it...as a birthday present.”

“Is it...my birthday, Lord?”

“I don’t know; it does not matter… Happy birthday.”

Raskreia sighed. “Even if you were to give me Ragnarok, I would not be able to use it.”

“Do you think  _ I _ put it to any use? But it is very pretty, you know, very decorative. Maybe it could even be something for Raizel to look at as well.”

“Lord, I urge you to reconsider.”

The Lord sat back and laughed grandly. “I see you are no less stubborn than your brother. You are not to be outdone, I’m sure, but, Raskreia, I will tell you...neither am I.” His smile twinkled with mischief.

* * *

One day, the Lord said to the Noblesse, “Come to the palace. I have opened my home to you. Stay for as long as you’d like.”

“I accept,” said one half of the Noblesse.

“I decline,” said the other.

There were whisperings, gossip down the grapevine.

“Have you heard? The Noblesse has moved into the palace.”

“Which one?”

“Lady Raskreia.”

“How strange…How strange…”

* * *

“Why do you imprison yourself here, Raizel?” Raskreia asked on one of her visits home.

Raizel was sitting across from her. “I need not be anywhere else.” It was a true answer, but it was not an honest one. But then he said, “What our duty entails, Raskreia, have you forgotten it? Those you face and who face you, you must pass judgment upon them; do not forget that.”

Raskreia’s face creased in annoyance. “I have not forgotten. But it seems as though it is you who has forgotten that our duty does not deny us our own lives.”

“When it is our duty to take the lives of others, how can we flaunt our own lives in front of those we may execute?” Raizel gazed downward, hands calmly folded in his lap.

Raskreia left shortly afterwards, and he was once again alone.

* * *

There were rumors. It was first thought to be a rogue noble, taking after the previous treacherous leader of the Agvain Clan. Then, it was a monster, a beast—the so called Devil spoken about in old stories. Then, it was a human, a doctor.

Those who initially pursued him were either never heard from again or returned with minds so scattered and raked apart that they hardly knew who they themselves were, much less the name and face of the man who had captured them. But they always spoke of fire, of cold, dark fire whose edges flickered blinding violet and whose touch was rot.

Gejutel, grown into his aged, gruff stature, took on a grave expression. “The great number of mutants that have been causing the humans harm, they have been eliminated...by a single human.”

Ragar nodded, confirming. He stood tall and with his legs close together, making his figure willowy.

“A  _ human _ with such power...” The Lord sat back on his throne. He gazed upward thoughtfully. “How... _ fascinating _ . I would like to speak with him in person. Do you not think that is a great idea? Gejutel, Ragar, go bring him to me, and we will see to his fate.”

They bowed. “We obey your will, Lord.”

When battle broke, the very earth roared.

* * *

“Cadis Etrama di Raizel allowed the human to stay at his mansion?”

“Yes, he told us that he will accompany the human to see you once his wounds have healed.”

The Lord laughed uproariously. “Well, that’s not too bad, I suppose. It will be better than that child spending his time alone.”

“But there are other matters we must report, Lord,” Gejutel said. “The human claims that corruption runs not only among the knights but also higher—the clan leaders.”

Somberness was unusual on the Lord’s face, but it sat there unmoved. “This is not unheard of, as you both might remember…”

“The Agvain incident, yes. It is fortunate that Urokai Agvain does not take after his father.”

Ragar turned. “But how do we know that, Gejutel?” His downcast eyes were thoughtful; he was rereading the human’s words in his mind. “How can we know, when we have always trusted each other’s honor without question? The human asked us if we can swear on that. I do not think we can…”

“Hm…” Gejutel furrowed his brows.

Ragar looked up at the Lord. “There may be many conspirators; there may be few; the truth is, we do not know, but we do know that the mutants are noble originated. That is undeniable.”

The sound of a bold heel on the floor drew their attention. Raskreia emerged from a side door. “You have a point, Ragar,” she said. She swept her arm, fluttering her cloak behind her. “Then, with the authority of the Noblesse and with the blessing of the Lord, I will open an investigation. No position, no matter how high, will escape scrutiny. It is, to me, rather unacceptable that a human has had to clean up our mess.”

Ragar and Gejutel bowed. “We obey your will, Lady Raskreia.”

* * *

“Have you heard? The Noblesse has opened an investigation.”

“Which one?”

“Lady Raskreia.”

“How strange…How strange…”

* * *

The mansion’s silence revealed only the vast loneliness of its sole occupant: a Cadis Etrama di Raizel who stood staring out the window with his back to a vagabond human who played at ruthlessness and recklessness, who was a fiend and a killer, and who was now a butler, apparently.

It was merely a hasty lie: “I work here.”

And then it became law: “He works here.” Just like that.

Cadis Etrama di Raizel, who had an authority even over the clan leaders, knew it was a lie, but just for him, he made it truth. Frankenstein, for the life of him, could not figure out why.

But there was a way that Raizel’s eyes passed over him in measured gaze that told Frankenstein that when he looked at him, he was passing judgment on a man, and he had deemed that man, Frankenstein, as someone worth giving a room and a bed and time to recover. The mansion’s master, whoever he really was, asked for nothing in return, but Frankenstein, the prideful man he was, was no freeloader. He said he was a butler, so a butler he was, and he was a scrupulous and dutiful one.

A few days later, he received his first guest: Roctis Kravei.

“You are here to see Sir Raizel?” Frankenstein asked at the door.

“No. Actually, I am here to see you.” The man smiled amicably. “I only wanted to meet the one Sir Cadis Etrama di Raizel has decided to keep around. It is beyond me why he would do so, but I will not question his will, but I will say, even if you are a human, if you ever bring harm to him, you will not be forgiven.”

“So you’ve come here to threaten me.” Frankenstein crossed his arms and smirked scathingly.

Roctis maintained his sunny, gentle expression. “You are mistaken. I am only keeping the best interest of both you and Sir Raizel in mind.”

“Of course you are.”

“Roctis.” Raizel’s deep, smooth voice came from behind Frankenstein. He turned around and bowed his head, as a butler should.

Roctis bowed more deeply, his hair falling forward. “Cadis Etrama di Raizel,” he greeted. “I am glad to see you well.” He straightened. “I would like to step inside, but I am afraid my business here is concluded and I must take my leave,” and leave he did, promptly and with practiced leisure.

Frankenstein scrutinized his turned back with suspicion until he disappeared into the forest.


	2. Chapter 2

“So you’ve seen him, the human.”

“I have.”

“It is preposterous! A mere human living in the House Of the Noblesse. What is Lukedonia coming to? We might as well not have borders if a human can just simply waltz in whenever he pleases and take up residence and with the  _ Noblesse  _ no less. Why have they not passed judgement upon him? Should he not answer for the crimes committed against our own?”

“Perhaps we should not be so quick to judge…”

“What is  _ more  _ preposterous are these investigations; they have been dragged out for far too long. The Noblesse questions the loyalty and the sanctity of our very names, and the  _ Lord _ has given them free reign to do so. Lady Raskreia lives in the palace; she grows bolder every day. She is overstepping her bounds. Our Lord is handing over Lukedonia to the Noblesse family; we are being sold, I am sure.”

“No...he would not do something like that, would he? The position of Lord, the throne, it has always been secure from parent to child.”

“But he  _ does not have a child. _ ”

* * *

The Agvain records:

Five hundred years ago, Sir Agvain released a hoard of mutants onto the people of Lukedonia gathered at the Lord’s palace. He was sentenced to forced eternal slumber by one of the current Noblesse, Cadis Etrama di Raizel.

His son, Urokai Agvain, took on the title of clan leader at eleven years old. Since the age of eight, Urokai Agvain had been involved in his father’s efforts to create and rally mutants. He was made and trained to bite. Being so young, his powers were limited, but to please his father and clan leader, he spent his infant years honing the ability to possess the souls of humans until he could do so adequately enough such that the mutants would not perish within a few minutes and he was able to make them in greater numbers.

The purpose of these efforts by Sir Agvain was political protest.

* * *

“It is remarkable, what you have achieved,” Ragar said, nodding and dismissing Kartas.

Frankenstein sighed, blood dripping from his wounds and soaking into his clothes. “But I remain impressed. The strength of a clan leader is something to behold.” His fingers twitched with the remnant pain of Dark Spear.

“That is high praise from someone such as yourself, Frankenstein.” Ragar tugged at his mask.

Frankenstein held up his hand and looked at his scorched palm. “You have helped me improve with Dark Spear. Countless have been sacrificed for this weapon—a far too high a price to pay—but I should not let that sacrifice go in vain. The least I can do for them is to learn to wield them better and seek their justice, and the least I can give you, Ragar, is praise.” He straightened his jacket. “That is to say, I wish to give you more.” He smiled. “How about some tea?”

The Noblesse’s mansion appeared before them, and Frankenstein opened the door for them both.

“Sir Cadis Etrama di Raizel,” Ragar greeted, bowing.

“Sir Raizel,” Frankenstein greeted, nodding.

Frankenstein returned with promised tea, and they passed the time in mundane and pleasant silence.

There was the sound of footsteps, of the hard heels of boots against the floor. Raskreia and Ludis Mergas stepped into the room. “Raizel, I ask for your cooperation in this investigation,” Raskreia commanded.

Frankenstein turned, expression turning sour at the brash interruption. “What is this?”

“Understand, Raizel, I am not accusing you of crimes; I think it is rather unlikely that you, of all people, would be involved in the abuse of power over the humans, but we must be thorough.”

Ludis nodded obediently by her side, book clutched closely in hand. “Indeed. We have already uncovered the unexpected involvement of several knights from various clans. Even any knowledge you have will be helpful.”

“So you’re going to be questioning him?” Frankenstein asked, his stance taking on a guarded appearance.

Raskreia glanced at him, then back at Raizel. “There will be no need.” They locked eyes. “Raizel…” Their eyes glowed. “Open your mind to me.”

Red glimmered in the air, a whisper of power passed between them, and they watched each other. Their glows died down. Raskreia turned sharply. “He knows nothing,” she said and then briskly walked out.

Ludis scampered after her with his short legs.

“...How rude,” Frankenstein said.

* * *

The Landegre records:

Six years ago, Landegre knights coming back from diplomatic missions in the human world reported mutant activity. The several that they encountered were promptly dispatched without fanfare.

Five years ago, reports of greater numbers of mutants were passed to the clan leader Gejutel K. Landegre and the Lord. The several dozen were handled by a small team of knights. Mutant outbreaks would happen periodically throughout the next few years.

Two years ago, mutant corpses were reported. They were disappearing and dying in significant numbers, but they were not killed by the knights.

Gejutel K. Landegre and the clan leader of the Kertia Clan, Ragar Kertia, were sent by the Lord to capture a human who had arrived on Lukedonia.

Surviving knights who had encountered the human were treated and questioned. Most knew very little. However, upon further investigation, there were few among them who had not been sent to pursue the human, but had gone after him of their own accord. These few confessed that they had arranged to do so with other knights from the Tradio Clan and the Agvain Clan without the knowledge of the Landegre Clan leader.

The human was hunting mutants, and some of these mutants belonged to those few Landegre knights.

The motivation for the creation of mutants among the knights were varied. Some confessed to seeking power and worship—ultimately greed. Others were more ideologically motivated.

“I’ve seen him, my clan leader,” one of them said. “He goes on those diplomatic missions issued by the Lord. He treats the humans as if they are equal to us, when it is so very easy to crush them under our will. Gejutel K. Landegre is loyal to the Lord, but I will tell you, the Lord is not wise. He simultaneously expects us to bind ourselves to such a small Lukedonia and yet bend and bow to those humans. I’ve heard it, talk about opening Lukedonia up, telling the human world where we are, so that they might as well take our only home. Then where will we go?”

“What? A human has already found his way here?”

* * *

The sky was the dark velvet blue of dusk. Slowly, the moon faded into view, casting its silver light through the archways.

“Ragar, you are rather friendly with Frankenstein. I see you with him often.” Roctis cast a long, soft shadow against the stucco wall. “But I wish to ask, is it true that it required both you and Gejutel to pursue the human?”

“It required both of us to bring him back alive. Had the Lord ordered us to kill him, it would have only required one, but he wanted to speak with him.” Ragar glanced down in faint embarrassment, crossing his arms. “Though...we did not end up bringing him back to the Lord that night…” Suddenly, he looked up, alert, realizing that, “We did not bring him to the Lord. He has yet to meet him!”

“Ah...yes.”

Ragar turned swiftly, his long hair and coat fluttering, about to dart away to complete his long overdue mission.

“Ragar!” Roctis called, stopping him for a moment. “So he really is impressive enough to require two clan leaders to capture him?”

Ragar glanced back. “He has grown since then.” he said. “It will require two to kill him.”

* * *

The Tradio records:

The Tradio Clan leader, Lagus Tradio, had himself personally dealt with the knights of his clan identified as being involved in the mutant outbreaks. He renounced their abhorrent actions and swore his unending loyalty to Lukedonia and its history. “May our land and our blood remain eternal,” he decreed.

While he claimed no knowledge of the mutant outbreaks beforehand, a personal document written by one of the knights suggests more than let on.

The document reads:

_ I fear I am losing my mind, so I will write this while my lucidity remains. It was by a slight misfortune that I had overheard a conversation between our clan leader and the officer of my conroi. I did not hear the entire exchange, but in my fading memory, I recall that Sir Lagus Tradio spoke of “the progress they are making,” whatever that could mean. He sounded anxious. My officer mentioned friction with the Landegre knights. _

_ Sir Tradio responded: “We cannot count on the Landegre’s; they are a stubborn people set in their ways. I have seen the humans and what they build; they are a fast moving species. Many things have changed among them, and if we remain dormant, I fear they will outpace us before long.” _

_ It is difficult to accurately recount much else. Tradio poisons are powerful, and I will soon succumb. I am very tired. _

* * *

“Lord,” Ragar greeted as he bowed. “I have brought Frankenstein to you.”

The Lord smiled. “So we finally get to meet. I’ve been waiting, you know, and you shouldn’t keep a lord waiting for so long. I thought you’d turn up to ask for a sample of my blood for your experiments, but you never did.” He chuckled and gazed down softly. “How has Lukedonia been treating you?”

Frankenstein scrutinized the Lord with unbelieving eyes. “It is alright...I suppose.”

“A lukewarm review.” He sighed. “I thought we would have done better for a human as notable as yourself.” His smile widened, and his eyes filled with a warm regard. “Seeing you makes me very optimistic, you know. You are a good thing and only the beginning, I am sure. Ragar—”

Ragar blinked at suddenly being addressed.

The Lord waved his hand at Frankenstein. “Look at him, what do you see?”

“A human,” Ragar answered seriously and accurately.

The Lord exhaled, amused and enthused. “No, no, no, well, yes, he is a human, but there is more than that, Ragar. What you see before you” —he suddenly stood up and extended his arms— “is the future!” He sat down after a moment of silent imaginary applause.

Frankenstein wore a bewildered expression. “I am afraid my reception has not been as warm as you think.”

“No, no, I’ve heard, and I’ve heard, because I keep up with these things, you see. People are afraid of you and your power, but that is normal; change can be scary, I understand; I’m understanding.” He cleared his throat into a fist. “But If I may be honest, it’s about time you humans start being able to stand on your own two feet. Us Lords, we’re a very patient kind, but we can only wait so long, and we have waited a  _ very _ long time.” He laughed, as if he had said something rather funny. He collected himself. “Your powers are dangerous, I understand, but—what do you humans call it? Growing pains, yes—consider it growing pains. But, back to business—”

_ What business? _ Frankenstein’s face seemed to say.

“Raskreia has reported that the claims you have made against us nobles, unfortunately, hold some truth. It is clear that even if I were to ban us from interacting with the human world completely, there will be those who will continue to act disgracefully, since they are already bold enough to so blatantly propagate false contracts. Besides, isolating ourselves from the rest of the world is rather old fashioned. So, Frankenstein, a human who has lived in the noble world for some time now, I have a request to make of you: lead our diplomatic relations with the humans. You would be the most experienced among us. This is the way forward.”

“You assume I am rather good at diplomacy.” Frankenstein tilted his head with a wry grin.

“I do not assume; I know.” The Lord grinned back. “After all, who else has managed to so quickly make a friend of Raizel, of all people, the hermit he is?  _ He  _ has let you stay with him for these few years. Not to mention…” He looked to Ragar. “Ragar finds your company rather enlightening.”

Ragar nodded.

“And these investigations, they were catalyzed by you, you know.” The Lord sat back on his grand throne. “Isn’t that impressive?”

“The Lord is very wise, and he has acknowledged you in his wisdom, Frankenstein,” Ragar said.

“Yes, and Ragar is an excellent judge of character!” The Lord boomed.

Ragar tugged at his mask, almost blushing. “Thank you...my Lord.”

Frankenstein blew air out his nose. “I’ll consider it,” he told the Lord.

“Then consider it well, Frankenstein,” the Lord told him.

* * *

The Kravei records:

Three hundred and eighty years ago, the Kravei Clan leader, Roctis Kravei, created his child, Ignes Kravei. 

She is often in the human world.

* * *

Ragar’s step was silent as he accompanied Frankenstein home.

“Ragar? You’re with him again?” Urokai assessed them with suspicion. “And coming from the Lord’s palace?”

Ragar nodded. “I had brought him to the Lord—admittedly belated—and am now escorting him to the House of the Noblesse.”

“Why would the Lord want to speak with him personally? What makes him so special?”

“Hey, I’m standing right here.” Frankenstein’s face crinkled.

Urokai only gave him an annoyed, passing glance, not even bothering to grace him with an answer. “You’re always with him Ragar. Has it made you fond of him or something?”

Ragar looked at Urokai right in his eyes, unwavering. Quietly, he said, “And if it has?”

Urokai stepped back. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something but could find no words. He clicked his tongue and breathed out, collecting himself. “Well, aren’t you friendly…” he muttered to himself. Urokai stepped past them. “Do whatever. Why should I care about whom a human keeps in his company?”

Frankenstein turned, smiling. “Oh, indeed, I’ll be sure to inform my host, Sir Raizel, about your boundless enthusiasm regarding the people I’m around.”

Frankenstein’s hair fluttered. Urokai’s clenched fist was inches from his face. He stared on, unflinching.

Ragar had caught Urokai’s wrist in his hand. He shoved it back, lowering his arm. “It is unlike you to be so agitated, Urokai,” he said.


	3. Chapter 3

The Siriana records:

The 17th of March, 1113 AD.

_ Dear Sir Zarga Siriana, _

_ Complications have arisen on the Tea Horse Road in the stretch linking Kolkata and Lhasa through the Nathu La mountain pass. Per your instructions, we have been taxing those on the trade route according to the weight of their tea, salt, and spices. However, a few of our clan have recently deserted. They reappeared as bodyguards and guides for the humans passing through. It appears as though humans are more willing to pay them to fend off the collectors and for protection along the route rather than pay us for passage through the mountains; they are undercutting our fees. Clash between those stationed at the collection point and those defending the humans has already resulted in the death of two nobles. If this continues, our earnings will encounter a significant decline. I await your orders but in the meantime will do my best to defuse tensions among the nobles. _

_ Respectfully, _

_ Officer Doru _

The 21st of April, 1113 AD.

_ Dear Sir Zarga Siriana, _

_ Business is going well now that we have established common ground. Those stationed at the collection point and those hired by the humans have gotten friendly with each other. The more the humans fear us collectors, the more willing they are to hire the others for protection for pretty sums. The danger of mutants on the trail has driven up demand for guards as well. I am optimistic about our future earnings. _

_ Respectfully, _

_ Officer Doru _

The 2nd of July, 1113 AD.

_ Dear Sir Zarga Siriana, _

_ There has been an incident—a slaughter. It was no noble, but a human. He arrived with one of the noble bodyguards. When his carriage was uncovered, it was empty. _

_ His black flame has consumed our station. He killed the accompanying guard first and then with startling speed and ease dealt with the rest. He was monstrous and repulsive, a sight to behold. He has kept me and the messenger alive only to send you this final letter as a warning: more blood will be shed on this trail if we continue our business, and that blood will be noble blood. All the others have been swallowed by his terrible weapon. _

_ May my soul be shown mercy. _

_ Respectfully, _

_ Officer Doru _

The 2nd of July, 1113 AD.

_ Dear Sir Zarga Siriana, _

_ My, my, what beautiful coffers you have. _

_ Respectfully, _

_ F. _

* * *

The woman glared with brown eyes burning like the scorched earth of a forest fire. Her lips lifted slightly, almost in snarl. “What do you want?” She reached behind her tawny beige skirt, cautious. “I know those eyes; they’re the eyes of monsters. I’ve seen them, the things you turn us into.”

“Rest assured, I have no interest in those abhorrent false contracts.” Gejutel made himself even taller and straighter.

“That’s a cute story,” the woman said.

In the corner of his vision, he could see the glint of the knife clutched in her hand against the afternoon sun.

“Miss Basu, please.” Frankenstein appeared beside him, giving the woman a friendly nod.

“Doctor…” She stepped back respectfully and lowered her head in her own greeting. “It is...good to see you after all this time. It’s been a few years.” She smiled sweetly, but then her eyes shifted sharply to Gejutel. “But why are you with…”

“Miss Basu, perhaps we can discuss business somewhere more appropriate.” Frankenstein smiled gently.

Her gaze lingered on Gejutel, but she eventually said, “Yes, of course,” and opened the arched doors to her tall, opulent home. Its earthy red walls were chiseled with patterns and the towering, curved roofs sitting on top of those walls pointed to the sky.

The lush rug of the open common room brushed against their feet as they took off their shoes. 

“You must have traveled very far, Doctor. You should have something to replenish yourself.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary—”

But she was already holding out a green coconut with its top cut away by her handy knife and a spoon pressed into its inner flesh.

It was only polite for Frankenstein to accept as they sat down on the airy wicker chairs.

“It is a shame my son cannot be here to greet you as well. He would have been thrilled, but he’s on his way to Lhasa at the moment.” She laughed a little. “He’s rather dedicated to the family business, and I can rest easy now all thanks to you, Doctor, for clearing up the route of those…” Her eyes hardened as her gaze drifted over to Gejutel. “...pests.”

Gejutel only cleared his throat into his fist.

Miss Basu smiled melancholically down at her wrinkled, folded hands. “Three years, Doctor…Sometimes, I still expect him to just walk through that door, but he...he never does, not anymore.” Her smile dropped into a scowl, and her face creased, the edges of her eyes sharpening as she looked again straight at Gejutel. “It was your kind that killed my husband,” she spat. “No, killing him wasn’t good enough for you; you had to turn him into a monster.” Her voice trembled. “And then my son...my son had to watch his father die as a mindless animal. And he would have been killed too if it wasn’t for the doctor.” Miss Basu straightened herself and breathed out slowly, rubbing her thumbs against each other. “So you better have a damn good reason for stepping into my home,” she said to Gejutel.

“Indeed!” Gejutel asserted, slamming a hand onto the table, nearly cracking it as the wood creaked under his force. “It is of great importance that we are here. I understand relationships between you humans and us have been tense, but there are solutions—”

“Miss Basu,” Frankenstein called calmly. “Your family is one of the powerful merchant-artisan families in Bengal. We—_ I _would like to ask for a favor.”

“For _ you, _Doctor, whatever you desire that is within my power to give.”

Frankenstein curled his fingers around the fruit offered. “I would like for you to start doing trade with Lukedonia, the noble stronghold.”

They fell into a long silence.

“Surely, you can’t be serious, Doctor…”

* * *

“Sir Ludis Mergas, Central Order units have been stationed at shore. We await the human ships.”

Ludis looked up from scouring his books and records. “Good.” He nodded. “Let us hope that all goes well.”

* * *

“Sir Raizel.” Ragar bowed, a hand over his chest.

“Ragar,” Raizel acknowledged warmly then turned back to his window. “Frankenstein is not present, if you are looking for him. He would be nearer the Eastern shore.”

Ragar nodded. “I am aware. He is rather busy nowadays; we have not had an opportunity to spar for the past three weeks. But I am here today for you, Sir Raizel. I have just come from the recently completed Basu Hall. Frankenstein has requested that I bring you there to him.”

Raizel turned, his footsteps silent. He looked at Ragar and nodded.

There was a crash when they arrived. A noble had been tossed onto his back. Darkness crested out of the doorway of the pristine Bengali temple styled building and pinned him to the earth, spears piercing through his arms and legs. They sparked and decayed his clothes where they touched.

Frankenstein stepped out at the top of the steps, fingers flickering with his power. “Understand, I will not tolerate any threat of terrorism. If you have a problem with humans staying here, take it to the Lord.” He smiled sweetly and dangerously, like an entirely too pleasant host welcoming wealthy and esteemed guests and offering poisoned candy. “That is, unless you would rather deal with me directly, here and now.” Frankenstein raised his clawed hand. Spears manifested in the air, electrified with bloodlust and poised to strike. He smiled and smiled.

Those around, both human and noble, stared on at the scene, watching in frozen anticipation.

“I’ll leave! I’ll leave!” the noble cried, yanking at his limbs to hurriedly scurry away.

Frankenstein dismissed his powers with a flourish and looked down at himself, brushing out his black jacket as if it were any less pristine than usual. He looked up to Ragar and Raizel. “Please forgive the commotion,” he said and smiled genuine pleasantness at them. “Sir Raizel, I am glad you could make it, and Ragar, thank you for bringing him.” He quickly descended from the steps, the heels of his shoes clicking and nodded at Raizel. “I thought you might like to see how things are coming along—a change of scenery from your usual window.” He gestured towards the sprawling yet cozy settlement. The buildings were modest at most and there were only a few of them at this time, but those people brawny, brave, and foolish enough had already begun to put up fencing and till soil. Things would grow soon as the seasons turned, Lukedonia’s climate allowing for tropical delights.

Frankenstein sighed. “It’s been rather difficult to convince people to do business in a land with no currency—I’ve already spoken to the Lord about it—but at least Lukedonia has its natural resources. The soil is good and the lumber plentiful, but that’s only the start.” There was a glint in his eyes as he looked at some distant hills. He pointed to them. “_ Mining _ might be the boon we’ve been looking for. If Lukedonia is rich in precious metals and gems or fuel, then I imagine it will start to look much more attractive to outsiders. I’ve gone there myself, and there is some promise.”

Raizel looked at him, appearing wonderstruck for a moment at what Frankenstein was implying. “You hope to bring more people to Lukedonia?”

“Well yes, of course. Lukedonia’s population is painfully small. But we will also need to bolster its infrastructure; there are far too few roads and fresh water isn’t as easily accessible as it should be. Ludis Mergas has assigned a unit of the Central Order to do some labor. I’ll have to make sure they get it done right.”

Ragar tugged at his mask, turning slightly to Raizel. “He is, indeed, great…” he murmured.

Frankenstein blew air out his nose. “You’re always going on about the Lord.”

“I am referring to you, Frankenstein.”

“Oh.”

* * *

“I don’t understand. It wasn’t enough that _ he _ decided to just live on Lukedonia, but now he’s bringing _ more _ humans. Have you seen it? The building—whatever its name—Basu Hall. It’s an _ eyesore. _ Humans, they’re greedy; they’re taking everything; they’ll leave Lukedonia a barren wasteland, and the _ Lord _ is letting them—no, he’s _ welcoming _them.”

“Heads or tails?”

“What?”

Zarga held up a gold coin in between his thumb and forefinger. Moonlight glinted off its edge. “Heads or tails?” he asked again. He was leaning against the wall.

“Why are you playing stupid games? Are you even listening to me?” Urokai snapped.

Zarga sighed, lowering the coin to cross his arms. His face looked permanently creased with tiredness. “I’ve been listening to you go on and on for the past thirty minutes. I understand your frustration, but you are far too...personal. You dislike those humans just because they’re under Frankenstein’s supervision—”

“That’s not true!” Urokai recoiled, clenching his fingers together tightly by his sides. “That’s not true,” he said again, more calmly. “I just—I don’t understand what’s so special about a mere human…”

“You are short sighted, Urokai.” Zarga said, looking down at his coin again, turning it over and over in his hand. “You think they have nothing to offer us, but I, for one, have decided to_ invest _.” His eyes darted back up. “Frankenstein wants those roads laid and those wells dug and a few nice things here and there for the humans. He needs labor and materials, and those things don’t come for free, not in the human world, at least. I will be making a fair donation to his project. It will help speed things along.”

“So you’ve gone insane as well,” Urokai muttered. “Wasn’t he the one who killed your clan members?”

“Again, you are too personal.” Zarga tossed the coin high in the air. It turned and turned. “Humans in Lukedonia, they might be a rare opportunity.” It was caught. “Heads or tails, Urokai?”

Urokai pressed his lips together and stared pensively at Zarga, whose gleaming red eyes bore into him. “Heads,” he said.

Zarga lifted his hand, revealing the coin. “Tails. You lose.” He held the coin in between his two fingers once more. “Do you want to try again?”

* * *

The Noblesse records:

The 18th of January, 1117 AD.

_ Dear Frankenstein, _

_ I hope you are in good health, as you have taken on many responsibilities so quickly, especially in a noble’s time. I am aware that there had been conflict between a few members of my clan and you in the human world years ago, but let us leave those misfortunes in the past, and instead work together towards a future that will be mutually beneficial. I have taken your first and last letter addressed to me to heart. I remain flattered by your compliment and have decided to open up those ‘beautiful coffers’ to you. Accompanying this message is a bounty of gold and silver from the Siriana Clan that I hope you will find very useful. Think of it as me rightfully returning the humans’ generosity. _

_ Respectfully, _

_ Zarga Siriana _

* * *

It was rather quickly that four more years had passed. The human settlement grew, and Basu Hall became only one of two buildings for human affairs, the other one being named Alvar Hall after another partner in business who had taken great interest in the mining operations and the farming of rubber trees on healthy Lukedonian soil.

“Gemstones you say? Under Lukedonia?” The Lord leaned his head against an arm. “That’s a good thing, yes? Humans like those sorts of things.”

Frankenstein held his fingers to his chin thoughtfully. “Well...yes, but these ones are rather unusual. They are unlike any other geological phenomena. I suspect that their formation might have to do with nobles having lived here for so long. They almost have an _ aura _.” He crossed his arms and chuckled a bit. “I don’t know if you know anything about rocks, but they usually don’t feel alive.” He reached into his pocket. “Catch.”

The stone rocketed towards the Lord and landed soundly in his hand. It gleamed and glistened as if by its own power. Its red was deep and clear, like freshly spilled blood. The Lord turned it in his hand, peering curiously and with wonder.

“It’s been dubbed ‘blood stone,’ for obvious reasons,” Frankenstein commented. “They say this could be a very valuable export.”

* * *

A crude, rubber ball bee lined for Ragar’s face as he was seated on the dusty ground. He raised his hand and stopped it on a pin.

A little human girl nervously scampered over, making and breaking eye contact. “Uh, um…I...I’m sorry, Sir.”

Ragar gently held out the ball to her. “You may call me Ragar,” he said.

“Ragar,” the girl repeated and took the ball from him. “Are you...a friendly monster?”

Ragar blinked and thought to himself silently. His eyes softened. “Yes,” he said. “I am a friendly monster.”

“And you’ll protect us from the bad monsters?”

Ragar nodded.

The girl’s face broke into a wide smile, beaming at him suddenly like he was the best hero in the best story. “Like Frankenstein!” she said.

Ragar smiled a little behind his mask. “Like Frankenstein,” he said.


	4. Chapter 4

The Noblesse records:

Arrested:

Amodeus Aeren, clan Landegre.

Aron Bruos, clan Agvain.

Ama Faer, clan Kravei.

Branne Cuomo, clan Kravei.

D’shin Or, clan Agvain.

Fthrama Arne, clan Agvain.

Gregre Tramer, clan Tradio.

.

.

.

Henri Cherval, human.

* * *

“Father, a pleasure it is to see you again.” Ignes smiled graciously and bowed deeply with saccharine sweet gentleness, the dark waves of her hair falling forward with the motion.

“Ignes…” Roctis greeted in return, his face and tone far graver. “Do you know why you have been summoned back to Lukedonia?”

She tilted her head like the most innocent person in the world. “Not entirely. If it had been our by our Lord, I could have guessed that it’s another one of his fanciful games, but it’s the Noblesse this time; they _ rarely _summon people.”

“You have been called in for questioning, Ignes, by Lady Raskreia.”

“What? For what?”

Roctis sighed like the tired father he was and broadly swept his hand along the round wooden table of his lamp lit study, brushing away imaginary dust as he sat down and interlaced his fingers. “Ignes, you must be more cautious with how you act around the humans. There have been arrests made for their...maltreatment, including of those from our clan. You have been implicated, and the Noblesse wishes to speak to you.”

“So there have been rats.” She grinned sharply. “Fine. It doesn’t matter.” She shrugged. “What’s the worst they can do to me?”

Roctis narrowed his eyes, brows creasing heavily. “‘The worst,’ Ignes, is forced eternal sleep. That is well within the power of the Noblesse.”

Ignes stepped forward and placed her hands onto the table, leaning down towards Roctis in her charming, daughterly ways. “But Father..._ you _ won’t let anything happen to me, will you?” she asked, but it was no question.

A beat of silence passed. “I won’t,” Roctis said.

There was a knock at the door. “Sir Kravei, Sir Lagus Tradio is here to greet you.”

“The door is unlocked,” Roctis said. “Let him in.”

A turn of the doorknob, and the dark mahogany door creaked open. Before them, draped in black fabric that swept the floor without ever getting dirty was Lagus Tradio, skin wrinkled into the next millennia and stature crouched and short. His ancient hands parted and extended slightly outward in warm greeting, as if he were only welcoming guests into his own home. “Roctis Kravei, Ignes Kravei, a fine day to see you two.”

“What brings you here?” Roctis asked, still seated at the table. His features took on a hardened edge, but his voice remained appropriate and polite.

Lagus smiled. “I had received news that the beautiful Ignes has returned to Lukedonia after her time in the human world and thought it only appropriate to greet your daughter’s return.”

Ignes bowed and smiled. “Why, I am flattered, Lagus.”

Roctis, on the other hand, looked entirely unimpressed.

“Must you hold such suspicion for me, Roctis?” Lagus asked, clearly noticing the hardness to his expression but keeping his tone light.

Finally, Roctis stood up, sighed flasley like he had gotten something off of his chest, and put on a nice smile. “You misread me, Lagus. Should a father not always be concerned with the company his daughter keeps? But, forgive me if I may seem on edge. Things have...been developing rather quickly within Lukedonia as of late.”

“Indeed, Roctis,” Lagus said. “I think I speak for many when I say that it is at times worrying, but we must place our faith in the Lord to lead Lukedonia down the right path, as all other Lords before him.”

“Of course, Lagus,” Roctis said.

* * *

Dirt and debris erupted, a sparkling scar torn into the earth. Frankenstein pivoted and swung tightly and with searing speed, sending a cresting arc of darkness sailing through the air.

A crash, Ragar hit despite his invisible speed, and he skid backwards only to leap off again in the next blinding moment to press his blades against Frankenstein’s skin, blood flecking and flickering into the air. Then, Frankenstein was seemingly surrounded by Ragar’s phantoms, images perhaps real, perhaps not, and with blades poised, they all drove towards him.

But they stopped. There was an eruption of power not of their own. Ragar dismissed his phantoms and stepped back as the dust cleared.

Gradeus had, from somewhere, leapt into the fray, driving his axe Messad down on Frankenstein blocked by a roaring Dark Spear.

“Gradeus?” Ragar questioned.

Gradeus smiled and then too stepped back. Messad grandly lifted over his shoulder, he chuckled in a friendly enough way. “I heard all the commotion you guys were making; thought I’d join in too.” He glanced over at Frankenstein and then at Dark Spear. “So that’s the weapon everyone’s so scared of.” He put his hands on his hips and shrugged. “I’ll tell you the truth, it’s pretty ugly,” he remarked blithely and then grinned. “But then again, mine’s not much of a looker either. Hey, don’t you get bored of fighting Ragar all the time? How about a go with the God of War himself?”

“Self proclaimed?” Frankenstein raised an eyebrow and lifted the corner of his lips.

Gradeus shook his head, bangs swaying. “Some humans called me that a while ago, thought it had a nice ring to it. So, do you want to fight, or am I just wasting my time?”

Dark lightning sparked up Frankenstein’s form. “Alright, let’s go.”

* * *

The Kravei records:

The 21st of August, 1109 AD.

_ Dear Lady Ignes, _

_ Once again, they are preparing for war. As if a madness has consumed them, they are capturing those of rival peoples and criminals in absurd numbers and are sacrificing them upon their grand altars of stone and gold, presenting the hearts of those sacrificed to the heavens and hoping to earn the favor of the so called God of War to aid them in battle. I find human antics tiresome, but this all seems to amuse Sir Gradeus. As distasteful as it might be, he is once again promising to aid whomever spills the most blood in his name. Territorial disputes between states in this land continue to be a force of confusion and fury, and the upcoming raid of the neighboring state is a prime opportunity. Capturing a dozen or so humans during this time will draw no attention, as casualties and prisoners of war will be abundant. Experiments will go well, I am sure of it. _

_ Your loyal maid, _

_ Ama Faer _

* * *

“I like your style.” Frankenstein lifted his head as he swept out his arm as if welcoming the sky. Spears upon spears, electric with bloodlust, rained down.

“And I, similarly.” Gradeus charged and swung widely, heedless of the sharp, cold burn of Dark Spear criss crossing his body. Recklessly, he tore up the earth and the air and his own skin. His grin morphed into shadow: a dark chasm cut across his inhuman face as he bathed in the thrill and power of battle.

Frankenstein dodged Gradeus’s blade narrowly, wind cutting his face, and turned to carve open the noble’s exposed back and cast a splatter of blood onto the ground.

Gradeus roared then, swinging back, and his axe, engulfed in the oppressive red flame of his noble aura, cracked the ground, splitting apart Frankenstein’s shoulder. His tongue, long, sharp, demonic, flickered like fire as if extended to taste Frankenstein’s very blood in the air. “Maybe it’s only fair if I tell you,” Gradeus said. “The more of my own blood spilled, the more powerful I get. Fun stuff, isn’t it?”

Frankenstein grinned just as widely, eyes wild and fascinated. “Yes, fun…” He pivoted. Dirt fluttered at his feet. The end of his spear travelled at a speed usually reserved for Ragar. “If only it were true.” Perhaps it was unknown to Gradeus that Frankenstein also thrived on violence, that it made his heart pound and blood race with thrill. His fangs were as sharp as any noble’s; the only difference was that Frankenstein, an absurd little human, had that peculiar human quality of ambition. Forcefully, a dark, yawning canyon blossomed across Gradeus’s chest in the wake of his spear.

Gradeus, dark, flickering eyes widening, staggered back, and for the first time, he took account of his wounds—wounds he had carelessly welcomed onto his flesh. They were corrosive. They ached and ate away at him, but above all, they were cold. Like the night sky very, very far away. It was frigid enough to sink deep beneath his skin, like ice settled into his veins. He realized then, that he was not getting stronger with every sacrifice made in blood.

‘God of War,’ they had called him, and for good reason. He was fearsome and fearless. Destruction and blood were his calling, and his particular ability meant he was unstoppable, because no matter how strong any enemy, if they hit him hard enough, he would hit back just as hard. He would rise to match. His throne in that heaven humans made up was secure. His blade shined the brightest; his blood roared the loudest. It had been that way forever. It was supposed to be that way.

But, absurd little humans had that peculiar human ability to grow. Gradeus looked at the spear blazing up Frankenstein’s arms, and he realized then, that it too could rise to match before long.

“Hmph.” He fell into an uncharacteristic quiet. Suddenly, his body was engulfed in radiating and flickering red, and he raised his blade to the sky, as if to call to the gods. Messad warped and shifted, silver minotaur skull blossoming at its head, ushering in a renewed destruction to the atmosphere.

“Gradeus, what are you doing?” Ragar took a step forward.

But Gradeus gave him no answer. He only grinned again, more monstrous than before. In the next moment, he leapt up and slammed down with the force of war, of chaos, and of, tucked in the very back of his mind, fear. The very air seemed to atomize as the surging red crest of his blade rocketed down, stretching over the land.

A small sound peeking behind a tree: “Ah—”

“What—”

Ragar turned. A girl. A human girl, who had somehow snuck away from her home and followed them here. Even with his mask, Ragar’s eyes looked as if his stomach had dropped straight into hell. He darted towards her as Gradeus’s roaring attack descended.

Thunder shook the earth upon impact. Dust rose and curled and danced in the air. Trees split. Ground obliterated.

Frankenstein had blocked, taking the brunt of the attack, blood dripped and dripped from his arms and face, but his main concern was the girl. “Shit…” Quickly, like business finished, he dismissed Dark Spear and trotted over to Ragar who had his arms raised to shield her. Frankenstein’s eyes were tight with concern. “Is she alright?”

Ragar, a bit scuffed and scratched, straightened, revealing the girl.

Her eyes were wide and shaken and she stared and stared, but she was untouched.

Frankenstein sighed. His expression loosened enough to smile in relief, and he turned to Gradeus. “I think we should call it a day,” he said.

Gradeus, Messad still in hand, looked unimpressed. “What? But I was just getting started.”

Frankenstein shrugged aside his comment. “Save it for another time.” He turned back to the girl. “I’m sure the parents are worried for her. We should take her back.”

“Tch. Fine.” Gradeus dismissed Messad with the air of a child frustrated at having their playtime end. “I don’t have time to deal with fragile human children. See you around then,” he said and walked away, waving behind him.

“Um…” the girl began shyly. “Does it hurt?” she asked, looking up.

Frankenstein blinked, realizing he was profusely bleeding in front of a small child. “Oh, just a little. It’ll get better in a day or two...or three.” He smiled to make his point only to realize there was also blood in his mouth and likely staining his teeth. Gently, he bent down to be on eye level with her and asked, “Why did you come here? Does anyone know where you are?”

At this, the girl’s face seemed to redden and she fell into silence for a moment, looking down. “I’m...not supposed to be here. Mom will get mad at me; she says the monsters are dangerous.” She suddenly looked up and raised her voice, bright and hopeful and ambitious. “But I—!” She settled again, embarrassed for her excitement. “But I know Ragar and you are nice monsters.” She got even quieter. “And...I think your fighting is very good.”

Frankenstein smiled at her in an amused, exasperated way, exhaling through his nose. “But your mom is right. Monsters are dangerous. Look at what happened just now.”

“And Ragar protected me!” She sparkled with the assertion. “But if I learn how to fight like you two then I can protect me next time too.”

Frankenstein was taken aback. Admittedly, he was impressed by her tenacity.

“You wish to learn?” Ragar tugged at his mask and also kneeled down. Quietly, he lifted his hand and summoned Kartas in front of the girl’s face. Its blade gleamed in the reflection of her wonder-filled dark brown eyes. He held the soul weapon, almost as long as her torso, out to her patiently and looked at her with innocent and rather eager expectation.

Frankenstein turned to him. “...What do you think you’re doing?”

The realization of the offer was clear on the girl’s face when her eyes widened and she smiled like how all hopeful little girls should smile. Her hands were soft and delicate and small as she reached out to grasp at the long, slender handle.

When her fingers curled around it, a whisper soared through her body. She was frozen—unspeaking, unblinking, unseeing—young body and even younger soul caught in a possession of noble power. She was sinking away from herself as the presence of the Kertias sunk into her.

Frankenstein swiftly yanked the weapon out of her hands and shoved it back at its rightful wielder. “Ragar, she’s just a child!”

The girl blinked awake. She quickly looked around, reorienting herself again with her surroundings.

“I…was not aware that would happen…” Ragar stated.

“No kidding,” Frankenstein said.

* * *

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” the woman wailed as she ran towards them. “Arya! Arya, where did you go?”

Ragar, who had carried the girl all the way here on his shoulders, lowered her to the ground, and she ran into her mother’s arms to be hugged and squeezed and looked all over.

“Oh, you’re safe, you’re safe,” the woman cried as she smoothed down her daughter’s abundant black hair. “I thought someone had taken you! I thought…” Her eyes caught Ragar’s. “I thought…” She pressed her lips together and lowered her gaze. “Let’s go inside,” she said quietly, gently pushing Arya’s back to hurry her away from Ragar.

“Wait!” The little girl scampered away from her mother, kicking up dirt, and scurried over to stand before Ragar, beaming at him with her optimistic smile. “You _ must _ come back soon,” she told him.

Ragar looked down at her. “As you wish, Miss Arya,” he finally said.

“_ Tomorrow! _” she decreed, her hands on her hips.

Ragar smiled behind his mask. “As you wish, Miss Arya.”

* * *

Fresh white gloves covering his hands, Frankenstein turned the always polished door knob and stepped inside. He nodded in respectful greeting. “Sir Raizel, I’ve returned,” he said gently. “Hm?” His eyes shifted. “Urokai, you’re here again?”

Urokai looked as if he was holding back a snarl. “Is that in issue, Frankenstein?”

“I could feel Gradeus’s power from here,” Raizel said softly, his clear voice cutting through the air. “Are you well, Frankenstein?”

“Oh…” Frankenstein’s eyes widened, like he was surprised to be cared for by Raizel, who always kept to himself, although it was rather silly of him to be surprised at all at this point. Over the years, Frankenstein would sometimes catch Raizel’s gaze lingering on him, regarding him with a simultaneous mystery and gentleness. He did not mind when Raizel watched him; it made the man look a lot less lonely, and Frankenstein preferred it that way. Frankenstein smiled both confidently and, somehow, intimately, like this little moment was something only they shared. “Yes, I am well.”

Raizel’s eyes, always crystal red and careful, watched him. “I am glad, Frankenstein. I am glad you are well,” he said, a small, profound sort of softness in his gaze and his voice and his slight smile.

Urokai, in that moment, was speechless.

* * *

Ludis set down his book and uncrossed his legs, leaning back in his seat like royalty. “Roctis, I understand your frustration, but you must also understand, Ignes Kravei is not exempt from these proceedings.”

“Then, may I at least know the one who will be questioning her?”

Ludis stood up and went over to his shelf of books. His fingers skimmed their spines until he landed on the right one to withdraw and open in his arms. Pages fluttered as he quickly leafed through them. He stopped on the page of names of those within the Kravie clan. “Lady Raskreia, in five days,” he told him.

Roctis stiffened. He took on a grave expression. “I see…” He turned to step out. “I see...That is all I need to know. Thank you, Ludis.”

“Roctis?” Ludis called, running his hand down the smooth and inked page of the book. “_ My condolences, _” he said, a premonition. He sounded disgustingly sure of himself.

“There will be no need for that,” Roctis said, and he left.


	5. Chapter 5

So, Roctis Kravei had a daughter, and he loved her very much, as a parent should. And his daughter was a very good girl, and as all good girls, she liked to play by the shore. She liked to look across the vast, unrelenting waters and stretch her arms out to the world, and she would ask her father, “What is over there? What is beyond?”

“The human world,” Roctis would answer.

Ignes would look at him brightly. “Can we go see it?”

“Not now,” seemed to always be the answer.

* * *

Ignes was a young girl, but time passed nonetheless, and she looked across the deep, dark waters and wondered and wondered. Then, one day, an aged man, as wrinkled as the bark of ancient and tall trees approached and said, “Beautiful Ignes Kravei of the Kravei clan, I understand your curiosity. I can take you to see the humans. Would you like that?” Lagus offered.

“I would like that very much,” Ignes accepted.

So, that night, they left the shores of Lukedonia.

She was captured by the lamp lights and the sound of music. The humans, they bustled and laughed and lived their colorful, fleeting lives. Ignes, small and curious, bumped into a boy, her height, her youth. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. She and Lagus wandered the town.

Then, in the crowd that was always shifting and moving like serpents or river water downhill, they were separated. She found herself absolutely, utterly lost. The world, suddenly, was very, very big and the people very, very tall. The buildings, the lights, the people like kaleidoscopes bleeding into each other—magic and mirage.

“Hey!” the boy called to her, pulling her by her wrist to the side away from the sweeping crowd. “Are you lost? Someone was looking for you.”

Ignes, relieved to see even a vaguely familiar face, nodded, and followed him away. Perhaps had she been more observant, she would have noticed the blindness in his eyes or the noble aura clinging to him.

She was lead away and away from the lights and the eyes of the people.

On the edge of town, where the pavement gave way to dirt and soil and roots and old, tall trees with wrinkled bark, the boy pointed into the darkness and said, “Over there. They’re waiting for you over there. Go on.”

Ignes looked at him like it was very sad to say goodbye so soon, but they parted ways. As soon as she slipped into the darkness of the woods, the boy turned around, headed back into town, returned to the crowd, and when his friend would ask where he had gone, he would look at her, utterly and genuinely confused and say he had never left in the first place.

The rustle of leaves and hush of wind greeted Ignes as she was backlit by the distant light and humdrum of the people, too far away to notice a little girl in the woods. An aged, broad hand grasped her slender shoulder, and she twirled around beaming with a smile.

It was struck right off her face. 

She fell to the ground and stared up with wide eyes like the moon. There were three men standing over her, men she did not know. Though they were grand and muscled in stature, even grown human men should not have been able to overpower even a noble child, but by some godforsaken miracle written in unwilling blood, they bore strength beyond themselves. She kicked and scrambled. They hunted, possessed. They held her down. They tore apart her soft dress and then her soft skin and under it as well.

Roots as red as virgin blood emerged from the very air, and the three men were impaled and flung to the side easily. They did not even scream as they died; they did nothing at all, as if they were hardly surprised to be dying. Lagus stepped forth from the shadows of the trees. He kneeled down to Ignes, who, with bruised and bloodied hands, clutched at whatever was left of her dress and curled into herself.

“Ignes…” Lagus began, his voice raspy and comforting. “Do not be afraid. The humans, they do terrible things, but they are, ultimately, easily destroyed.” He reached a hand outward and gently brushed a lock of her hair back. She froze at his touch. “Ignes, will you remember who it was who saved you this night?”

Silently, she looked at him again. Silently, she nodded.

* * *

One day, Roctis asked his daughter, “Do you not wish to go to the shore today? You always loved the shore.”

“There is nothing for me there,” she told him.

* * *

The metal bars pulsed and sparked with noble power. The human sat in his cell, arms crossed and eyes alight with amusement and sharp with cunning. “So you, great, grand noble, come crawling back. Decided to accept my offer?”

“Mr. Cherval, you should not push your luck,” Roctis said.

“Oh, but I seem to have a lot of it as of late.” His haughty smile suddenly flattened into a serious line. “Let me out and get me to a ship off this godforsaken island first.” He smiled again. “Then I’ll let you in on a special human secret.”

So, in the dead of night, when all the birds and the humans were asleep, leaving the parading and singing to the crickets, the moths, and those four-legged prowlers with wide, round eyes that gleamed like moonlight and sharp teeth gnawing and hunting, Roctis stretched forth his hand and his noble ability and freed the human prisoner and got him to a ship off this godforsaken island.

Looking to the sky clear with stars that watched them with the most uncaring care in the universe, Henri Cherval stretched out his arms wide and took a deep, deep breath. He smiled as if the world would smile back at him. Then, he turned around and faced Roctis. “Alright, here’s the secret,” he whispered, leaning forward. “Humans, we’re very emotional. People do a lot of things for love; they do a lot of things for a lot of things. Especially that one, Frankenstein.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver pendent on a silver chain that caught the light of a distant, low fire that swallowed the paper thin wings of moths unfortunate enough to be lured too close in the cold, quiet night. “This belonged to a child. Frankenstein’s awfully fond of children, you know; he’s soft like that. He cared for this one quite a bit from the reports.” Dramatically and mockingly, he swooned backwards, placing the back of a hand against his forehead and tilting his head. “Oh! What tragedy! The dear child was killed. Can you imagine? What grief might consume him at seeing such an artifact paraded so perversely?” He bent forward and laughed and laughed like it was very funny that a child had died, like it was very, very funny. When he collected himself, he looked up with quiet victory. His voice was a mere hush. “Roctis, my man, my dear, my knight in shining armor come to save me from the prisoner’s tower, have you ever seen a monster before?”

* * *

On the third day, Urokai walked into the open door of the House of the Noblesse, and first he went into the room where Raizel would usually look out of his window. There was no one there, so he walked the hallways and tried the doors, and still, nothing greeted him except for the silence of nonexistent ghosts. So he walked outside to the front, then the sides, then, finally the back. There was a garden that was not there before, land shaped and colors arranged to fit the aesthetics of a particular human. Flowers blossomed aggressively, facing the sun and sky with all of their luminosity. Among their petals and perfume were Raizel and Frankenstein, so engrossed in the garden, they did not even notice him.

Frankenstein himself seemed to shower the flowers with his sunny disposition, eyes proud and bright and smile eager and genuine. He gestured to a shrub and this and that, explaining things to Raizel, who in return watched with innocent and rapt attention, like this was very important indeed. When Frankenstein turned to Raizel, pausing in the middle of recounting his personal adventures with plants and fungi and all those very exciting, mundane things, Raizel smiled softly at him.

Urokai, with the same rapt attention, watched those tender lips curl ever so slightly upwards, watched that expression brighten with Raizel’s personal regard of Frankenstein, the vagabond, criminal, human, who had the power and will to slaughter nobles he audaciously deemed unfit to live. Urokai wondered why in the world did Raizel welcome Frankenstein time and time again.

He stood there in the distance and watched their tender happiness bubble and rise. He watched Frankenstein give Raizel a pail full of water and then watched their hands gently touch as Frankenstein’s guided Raizel’s to pour over the rich soil. Urokai watched, and then, without a word, he left.

* * *

On the fourth day, Urokai held out a hand to accept a silver pendent from Roctis.

* * *

On the fifth day, Urokai extended a hand and a friendly spar towards Frankenstein.

Ragar fluttered with silent step to Gejutel’s side among the others who were there—Lagus and Zarga—to watch the sure to be spectacle between Frankenstein and Urokai.

“You have come as well, Ragar?” Gejutel inquired.

Ragar tugged at his mask. “I could not miss such an interesting event.”

“Gejutel, you ask him as if he is not always with Frankenstein,” Zarga said, chuckling a little, arms crossed behind his back, fingers turning and turning his golden, glittering coin.

They looked forward to the battle.

* * *

In the quiet room, one of many within the Lord’s palace, two people greeted each other first with assessing eyes, taking stock, sizing up, both thinking and wondering about how the other might slip up. Now, Raskreia was not one for paranoia or baseless accusations, but she had recently become increasingly suspicious of those around her, those who bowed perhaps a little too deeply, perhaps spoke to her with a touch more difference than necessary, perhaps averted their gazes too readily.

“Lady Raskreia.” Roctis bowed very deeply, sweeping a gentle, elegant arc. “Ignes will arrive shortly.”

“As she should, but why are you here, Roctis?” She looked at him with hard, scrutinizing eyes.

“Should a parent not always be by his daughter’s side?”

“Once Ignes arrives, this will be a private session.”

By the door was Ludis Mergas, heavy book always dutifully in hand. He too watched Roctis. In the eyes peering above the pages was the red gleam of anticipation, of perverse amusement, like justice was an entertaining game Ludis hoped to win and was going to win. He too looked forward to the battle.

* * *

Time and time again, Ragar had fought Frankenstein. The human was already an impressive feat—perhaps even an affront to the so called gods—that first night he and Gejutel were sent to capture him. He wielded power like no other—vicious, feral, crazed, and thunderous, and perhaps, rather quickly, Ragar was smitten with him. There were few opportunities that allowed him to bring out Kartas, and Frankenstein, a human, had so readily presented an opportunity. When they met, blade to blade and blood to blood in battle, thrill roared in their ears. But that was not the end of it; over the years, Frankenstein only grew greater and grander, and Ragar reciprocated his efforts, hitting harder, flying faster, cutting deeper. They bled for each other, gladly, time and time again.

Ragar was rather surprised, then, to see Frankenstein struggle and act relatively conservatively in battle with Urokai. Had it been Ragar down there, he was sure that Frankenstein would not have hesitated in raining spears and slicing his skin into ribbons at this point.

Urokai shoved Frankenstein back, and when he slammed down with his soul weapon, Frankenstein only grit his teeth and bore the brunt of the attack, his heels digging into the ground beneath him as if he could do no better and move no better.

Ragar glanced over at Gejutel, who had also received the honor of sparring with Frankenstein from time to time, and he watched with the expression of someone reading important manuscripts that had been carelessly spelled incorrectly, his fingers held to his chin in curious observation.

When Frankenstein sneered, Urokai snarled. He bore his fangs as if ready to hunt and tear him apart, the one who dared against all nobles to raise his terrible, crackling, human power. Urokai gripped Dragus and rose into the air and came crashing down with concentrated and deafening violence.

Frankenstein shifted his stance and drove forward, meeting and matching that violence. He grinned, fangs just as sharp.

When the debris settled and dust cleared, red, red blood dripped to the ground. Urokai stepped back, his foot shuffling the loose dirt, his hand held to his face, to his eye. Red, red, and more red spilled in between his fingers.

Frankenstein sighed lightly as if minorly inconvenienced. “A shame, I thought it would have gone deeper.”

“He—“ Lagus’ eyes were wide and terribly impressed. “He injured Urokai?” He uttered those words as if it should be news to them all.

Gejutel only nodded like this was only right and appropriate. “I thought it was strange that he was fighting so sloppily at first, but it was only to lower Urokai’s guard.” He hummed, satisfied with his own explanation, as if he was very wise and clever.

Urokai, watching and deathly silent, stared back with his remaining eye as if he were watching his entire world come undone and slip through his fingers as easily as his own blood. He gripped his weapon tighter.

Ragar stepped forward. “I think it is best to stop here. Urokai, stand back.” he announced.

“What?” Urokai spun, seething at Ragar. “You expect me to back down? Look at what he did to me!”

Ragar looked. “So what?” he said, unimpressed. He knew well enough Urokai’s petty disposition towards Frankenstein. “This is a spar, not a fight to the death.” He turned to Frankenstein. “The same goes for you, Frankenstein. That is enough.”

“Tch.” Urokai looked to the ground. A second or so of silence passed. Then, he reached into his pocket. “Ah, Frankenstein, this wouldn’t happen to belong to you, would it? A human gave this to me wondering if it belonged to anyone I knew.” He swung his arm and tossed the silver necklace.

It clinked against itself as it landed in Frankenstein’s hand. He looked at it. He turned it over in his palm. “This is…” Slowly, he curled his fingers around the curved flame shape of the pendant. He fell into silence.

* * *

The door was slammed open, almost knocking Ludis off of his feet and startling everyone inside. “Lady Raskreia!” The noble’s chest rose and fell deeply as he caught his breath. “It’s the human! He’s—he’s…” He couldn’t quite find the words to describe him, but the cutting electricity and thundering rot in the air told them all enough.

“I believe he is under your jurisdiction, Lady Raskreia,” Roctis said respectfully. “As it was the Noblesse who took him in.”

Raskreia gazed down in quick contemplation. “Indeed…” She sighed and turned, her long hair and cape fluttering. “How troublesome. We will have to reschedule. A more urgent matter has arisen.” And with that, she left, Ludis closely behind and sighing a small, disappointed sigh.

Roctis and the stray reporting noble were left alone.

“Ah, Sir Roctis Kravei…” He nervously bowed as if terribly embarrassed about momentarily forgetting his manners.

Roctis nodded at him. “Thank you for telling us so promptly Mister...”

“Aeoffe—Hester Aeoffe, Mergas Clan.”

“Then, Mister Aeoffe…” Roctis approached. His eyes bore into him. They shimmered and glowed, shifting between shades of red and rose, pulsing with his psychic command.  _ “Ignes Kravei arrived shortly after the commotion caused by the human Frankenstein, and as Lady Raskreia was occupied, she was instead questioned by Hester Aeoffe. She put up no resistance, and was found completely innocent. She has no connections to those of the Kravei clan involved in human affairs. She was implicated as a scapegoat for their crimes. Do you understand, Mister Aeoffe?” _

Completely captured by his gaze and his enchanting command, he could only respond obediently, “Yes, Sir.”

Roctis walked passed him. “Please be sure to write that in the records, Mister Aeoffe. Thank you.”

* * *

Like anyone else, there were things Raizel knew and things Raizel did not know. For example, he knew Frankenstein. The first night, when he sensed the wounded human shuffle through the lonesome mansion wearing Raizel’s shirt, he wondered what the occasion could possibly be to warrant such an unusual visit. Raizel had been alive long enough and watched the world from his window for long enough to know what was unusual and what was not. When they met face to face for the first time, the power—flickering despair and obsession—curling around him and his soul was, indeed, unusual. Hurt and a little bit frightened, the human apologized for taking the shirt and introduced himself as a servant, so he was so. Raizel had no objections. He could be whatever he wished to be.

Raizel knew what was unusual, and Frankenstein was one of those things. Now, Raizel knew souls; that was the one thing the Noblesse should know if they knew nothing else. The soul was information, everything and anything he needed to know about a person; it was unbound by time and unbound by space. At heart, at soul, Frankenstein sang and bloomed with a grand love for a vast world Raizel did not know. Frankenstein would look past the shores of Lukedonia, and he knew what lay beyond, and he knew it was great, and he was unbearably, destructively kind to whomever he thought needed it just to make the already great world a little bit greater. But then Frankenstein would turn around and bear his teeth and his weapon. He rejoiced in jest and blood. He was no stranger to cunning and killing. There were those who feared Frankenstein as if he were their executioner, as if he were Raizel, which was unusual, because Raizel was Raizel.

However, what was more unusual was when Frankenstein would walk into the room and smile at him and talk to him even if Raizel did not make very interesting conversation. Or when Frankenstein took it upon himself to scrupulously wipe and dust and garden and cook and go out of his way to show Raizel nice things and give him nice gifts; tea, cake, cookies were things Raizel discovered he liked. All of this was very unusual, but then, over the years, it became the usual, and Raizel found himself looking forward to the routine times everyday when Frankenstein would open the door to the room, step inside, smile, and greet him with the usual tea or breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or other exciting things. During those times with Frankenstein nearby and enjoying their mundane, shared silence, loneliness seemed so very distant.

As he looked up into the distance beyond his window, he shoved open the glass. He could sense it in the air: power, violent and expansive and stretching far enough to reach even his remote corner of the woods. It held the distinct tang of unthinking, simultaneous fury and glee.

Here was another thing Raizel knew: he would save Frankenstein.

* * *

Her blood field glazed the sky with red. Raskreia raised her hand, and heaven split to spill blood from the sky in a vortex that would have torn anyone limb from limb.

Frankenstein, man and monster, low to the ground like a deep, dark shadow, narrowly dodged and sailed towards her, form flickering and howling with hunger.

Raskreia stood her ground. This was too easy, she thought, as he raised her hand again directly at him. She would finish this.

“Raskreia, step back!”

“Raizel?”

“Sir Raizel!” Urokai exclaimed from a distance.

Frankenstein’s amorphous blade got far too close as Raskreia leapt away. The ground just beneath her crumbled and darkened with rot.

“You are interfering?” she asked as she landed with ease. 

“I am fulfilling my responsibilities.” Raizel glanced at her and then looked towards Frankenstein. “Leave him to me.”

She gazed up at him, assessing; then, she stepped back. “You took him in, after all…” she conceded and lowered her blood field.

“Frankenstein,” Raizel called.

This seemed to be enough to redirect his attention as Frankensteinlunged at his newly arrived prey. His violet violence cut Raizel’s face and hands and arms, and Raizel summoned his own blood field from those wounds.

Frankenstein rose and swung down, cutting the air.

His blade was caught in Raizel’s deceptively delicate fingers. Gently, tenderly, ceremoniously, like an oath, Raizel reached out to touch at Frankenstein’s blood. He brought it to his lips and whispered something akin to a human prayer:  _ “Frankenstein, awaken.” _


	6. Chapter 6

"Ah, Ignes." Lagus walked into the humid underground bunker. On a table to the side were glassware filled with ambitious concoctions and scattered papers scrawled with notes. "I see you have been keeping busy."

Ignes turned around, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and smiled sweetly at him. Her fingertips were stained with blood. Chained to the wall has was a human man. He had long stopped breathing and gone cold. His body had started to stiffen—rigor mortis. Ignes sighed lightly, drawing her eyebrows up in vague exasperation. "They never last very long," she said. "Humans, they're just so..._small_."

Lagus' cloak swayed as he stepped forward. He placed an intimate, gentle hand on her slim shoulder. "Oh Ignes, but what if I told you they can grow?"

* * *

When Frankenstein awoke in a small, stiff bed, he had two questions. The first, 'How was he alive?' he was able to answer himself. The second, 'Was Raizel okay?' he could not answer.

Ragar and Gejutel gave him tense gazes as he peered at them curiously.

Ragar stepped forward and held out his hand. "I believe this is yours now." In his palm was the silver necklace. "I picked it up off the ground before we brought you here. It seems important to you."

"Oh…" Frankenstein gently plucked it out of his hand and stared at it somberly. "Thank you…" Quietly, he put it around his neck, snapping the clasp into place behind his hair.

Ragar nodded.

After some silence, Frankenstein said, "So it was Raizel who saved me?"

"Had it not been for him, you would have been disposed of by Lady Raskreia," Gejutel said, head held rather high.

Frankenstein's lips and eyebrow lifted into an amused but cynical expression. "Now why in the world would he do that?"

Gejutel, in his callous, gruff, and haughty ways, huffed sternly. "I have as much of an idea as you do as to why _he _would keep someone as reckless, noisy, belligerent, nosy, arrogant—"

"I get it, old man."

* * *

There were certain things Frankenstein knew about Raizel. For example, he didn't like vegetables for their bitterness, and he enjoyed a bit of tea to go with his cup of afternoon sugar. He also knew that Raizel was hurt and that he would not confide in Frankenstein about it. Frankenstein knew as well certain things about Dark Spear. He knew that Dark Spear liked to hurt people. It was as clear as falling rain that had not yet touched the ground who had hurt whom.

Raizel, Frankenstein was told, had walked away from that fight with hardly a few scratches, and Frankenstein had gleaned over the years that Raizel belonged to a class of nobles that were powerful, even more so than the clan leaders, so it made little sense to him how Raizel could be spitting up blood the day after. Even if Frankenstein had attacked him in a possessed state, he should not have caused that much damage. He had seen Ragar recover from worse after their sparring, so, reasonably, he concluded that something else had happened. Raizel had not simply beaten him into submission or tired him out.

Frankenstein found himself shoving open the towering doors to the Lord's throne with both hands; they swung and slammed with thunder against the walls.

"Glad to see you're feeling better!" the Lord boomed jovially, but his eyes, more so than ever, were watchful and preying. He smiled with practiced ease. To his right stood Raskreia, tall, stately, and stern.

Frankenstein was in no mood for humorous banter and simply and seriously asked, "What has happened with Sir Raizel?"

At this, the Lord's smile faded momentarily before he picked it up again, gentle and understanding. "So you care to know what has happened to him? Oh, where should I start?" He waved his hand, gesturing in the air as if he could encourage his memories to float up there to show Frankenstein instead of going through the trouble of spending breath to tell him a story that spanned millennia.

Frankenstein, hands clenched at his sides, looked up at the Lord's airy performance and stood his ground as if to bring him back to earth. "Raizel is hurt." His voice softened. "He...will not tell me why."

"Oh!" The Lord leaned back in his seat, huffing and almost rolling his eyes as if this was a typical story he was tired of hearing. "Of course, that guy likes to suffer alone. How sad. It's all very sad," he said as if it was, in reality, not _very_ sad. He looked at Frankenstein and smiled. "If I tell you, will you promise to make him better? You've already been living together for several years now; he must mean something to you if you've come all the way here to ask about him."

"You don't have to ask me to help him."

At this, the Lord hummed, satisfied with such an answer. Then, he sighed, taking on the appearance of being very old and tired. He had a way with himself, how he laughed and smiled and looked, always shifting and moving from one face to another—childish to cunning to friendly. It gave him the air of being not quite a real person but a figment of collective imagination. At the moment, he appeared very wise, like he had seen many things and many people. From eons of memories, he pulled one forth and presented it to Frankenstein: "Raizel sentenced someone to eternal sleep for the first time when he was twelve years of age."

"A _child_?"

He nodded. "He and Raskreia are of the same blood. They were formed from the soul of their predecessor, and the moment they came into existence, they bore the title of Noblesse to protect not only nobles themselves but the order of nobles." The Lord leaned back and chuckled. "At least, that's what my predecessor's predecessor's predecessor or so ordained who knows how long ago, and no one seems to question this. Sad stuff—"

"I'll get to the point." Raskreia stepped forward. "Raizel performed an awakening on you. Killing you would have been easier, but he spent his life to keep you around."

"His life?"

"Only the Noblesse can perform awakenings. It takes great power from the user to directly influence another's soul without a contract, _especially_ if that soul is being buried under a horde of others seeking to destroy everything in sight."

Frankenstein stared for a moment, then he lowered his eyes, pressing his lips together in heavy, considerate silence. "I see…" He murmured, not really to be heard.

"I could have handled you myself," Raskreia said. "But Raizel insisted."

"For someone like me."

"For someone like you."

The Lord's floating, sing-song voice interrupted their seriousness, elevating the conversation again into the disorientating and whimsical air that the Lord carried himself with. He smiled at Frankenstein, all cunning and mischief that looked strangely human on him. "Say, have you and Raizel made a contract yet?"

There were certain things Frankenstein knew about contracts. One: there were two kinds, false and true. False contracts were the ones that made mutants; true contracts, no one remembered. Two: contracts were made with spilled blood. Three: to make a contract with a noble was to give them your soul.

The quiet night accompanied him as he walked home, and he stood still at the thought. When had he started thinking of Raizel's mansion as home? Looking up at the stars that twinkled meaninglessly at him, he was given no answers. Raizel gave so freely and so effortlessly and without asking for a single thing. At first, Frankenstein's servitude—cooking, cleaning, and other mundane activities—was a ruse, a temporary arrangement until he could figure out whom he needed to kill before racing out of Lukedonia and back to the human world, when there was such a separation between that and the noble world. But the current situation was vastly different from the initial plan. That was the thing with plans; the universe always seemed to have different ones.

Frankenstein looked down and kicked a small stone, his hands in his pockets. It flew in a low arc, landed with a thud a short distance away and bounced and rolled to a stop in the dirt.

Frankenstein knew who he was. He knew he was an ugly man who did ugly things for power. He had killed before, and from the souls of the damned, birthed his child, lover, devil, god—Dark Spear. Raizel had looked at him in the soul at his ugliest, and he had passed judgement. Frankenstein wondered if it had been a grave error.

Raizel was generous in a way that Frankenstein was not generous. He was virtuous in a way that Frankenstein was not virtuous. Born into the greatest of power, Raizel both spared Frankenstein and gave a bit of himself up for him, of all people in the world.

Frankenstein wondered and wondered the whole walk home—and it really did feel like home at this point—why it was so for someone like him. He realized then, a slow, tender realization, that it was not so much the course of the universe that had plans differing from his own, but that his own plans had changed. Frankenstein had stayed for the profoundly simple reason that he wanted to stay. He wished to be by Raizel's side.

* * *

The stone wall cracked, and grit fell from the side of his fist. "What the hell was that!? Why would—why would Sir Raizel…" His face was creased deeply with snarl and scowl. "Did he not see what Frankenstein became? Humans, if they're not weak, then they're monsters."

Zarga, leaning against the wall and hiding from the chilling rain with his arms crossed, nodded almost sleepily, agreeing simply to quell Urokai's anger but not basking in the same emotional indignation. "It was rather surprising, yes. I hadn't expected that Sir Raizel would have shown such...personal care—" One look at Urokai's face told Zarga that he had said the wrong words.

Urokai's jaws and glowering eyes tightened. He was on the edge of bursting into flames, but somehow, miraculously and with herculean effort, he reigned in his turbulent fury, breathed in deeply, and exhaled, making ghostly clouds of his breath that rose from his mouth and gracefully disappeared. "I will go check on him, Sir Raizel, to see if he is alright."

"_Oh, how honorable of you_," Zarga enunciated slowly. He chuckled to himself as he watched the multitudes of raindrops pitter patter in small puddles on the dark, uneven ground.

* * *

Basic biology said that the heart pumped blood throughout the body and that blood carried nutrients and waste to and from cells, respectively. Blood was, ultimately, a mode of transportation, but it was for more than just the physical transportation of chemicals from one part of the body to another. Beyond the physical, there was the soul, for which the body was an interface. The body was how the soul got around and experienced the world, and how souls met other souls. Blood, when given to a noble, was a bridge—a bond—from soul to soul.

It welled from his wrist and dripped into the tea.

Frankenstein rolled the iron tea cart in and bowed his head respectfully. He presented the cup to Raizel, an offering. Rain tapped rhythmically and soothingly against the fogged windows like lullaby.

Raizel raised the cup to his lips and graciously sipped as he usually did during their personal, everyday rituals. He paused and looked up at him, pinning Frankenstein to the spot. "The tea...it tastes different."

Frankenstein tried to laugh it off, scratching behind his ear. "Oh, I thought to try a different blend."

"Frankenstein…"

"Yes?"

The air shimmered with red, lantern-like and alive. The room was suddenly infinitely vast as if that particular space between them was the only thing that existed in the world. "_We have entered a contract of the soul, bound by blood. Do you consent?"_

There were things that Frankenstein did not know. For example, he did not know that Raizel would know about the blood in his tea. And he did not know that it would bring him to his knees. He did not know that he would do it entirely of his own volition. Did not know that he would look up at him with tender moonlight and utter the words, "_Yes, Master." _For the first time in a long time, Frankenstein felt entirely complete as if it were only human to be bonded. That poisonous rot of loneliness crumbled and gave way, becoming nothing more than dust in the wind; Frankenstein was sharing souls, and Raizel's vast presence settled into his breath, his blood, his cells; it sunk deeply into him. As easily as that, Frankenstein had given his very own soul up to be guarded from that hellish fiend, himself.

Still kneeling and basking in the glow of being bonded, Frankenstein turned his head. "Urokai?"

He was in the doorway, staring with wide, wide eyes. His lips were parted, wordless. Rain water dripped from the ends of his hair. Urokai looked, in that moment, as if he had forgotten how to be alive.

Frankenstein smiled at him, genuinely, tenderly, for once.

Urokai did not share the same sentiments. Stiffly, he lowered his eyes and swallowed. He shifted his footing, turning away. "Apologies for disturbing you, Sir Raizel," he murmured and shuffled away, shutting the door behind him.

Raizel and Frankenstein were again left with each other and the quiet lullaby of the rain.


	7. Chapter 7

As the afternoon stretched into dusk and people lit their oil lamps, the humble tavern in the human part of town ushered in music, dancing, and weary souls from a day of work.

"The vein of bloodstone keeps going deeper into the mountains."

"At this rate, there'll be enough for everyone and their mothers and grandmothers on this island, haha!"

People cheered and clinked cups. Drinks and food were ordered and swiftly served.

At another table, a man leaned towards his brother. His calloused fingers rubbed pensively over his stubbled chin. "The Siriana's, they're bleeding us dry."

His brother nodded. "But most of the waterways and new roads pass through their land. It's the best location to deliver your goods." He leaned back in his seat and sighed, lifting his face upwards wistfully.

The man interlaced his fingers and rested his chin upon his knuckles. His eyes drooped in sleepiness. "The Kertia Clan charge nothing for residence on their land."

His brother shook his head. "It's too far inland and difficult to navigate."

The sky turned into an inky shade of night, and the tavern windows glowed orange and yellow from lamplight and fire. Music drifted out to the street. On the lively floor, a young woman danced, her feet light and her eyes glimmering. Jewels draped around her wrists and neck accentuated her warm copper skin and clinked with her movements. Holstered at her hip, a sharp, dark dagger.

Mischievously, she smiled at the other patrons. A man whistled. A girl cheered.

"Arya! That's my girl!"

"As beautiful as ever! Hahaha!"

She spared those raucous gentlemen a playful glance, but as she fluttered, shoes clicking on the wooden floorboard, turning and turning, rising and rising, her eyes were searching for a particular shade of red.

Against the far wall, hidden partially by shadow, stared back at her a pair of deep jewel eyes. He watched her silently from a distance, attention vast and careful.

She grinned widely at him, and slowly, she drifted over, always keeping step with the rhythm of the music. Arya came to a stop right front of him, smile bright and eyes beguiling.

Ragar nodded once subtly. Then, he extended a hand. When he uncurled his fingers, two red stones rested in his palm — earrings. "Happy birthday, Miss Arya"

Gracefully and freshly twenty-two years of age, she accepted the gift. The stones coldly kissed her cheeks as she put them on.

"Who let this one in here?"

A man, tall and brutish, stood from his table with such force, the drinks on it threatened to tip over. He stepped over to Ragar, cornering him. "You're one of them, aren't you? Didn't Mister Frankenstein tell your kind to stay out of human affairs?"

The easy smile fell abruptly from Arya's face. "He hasn't done any harm. Leave him be."

He glared at her. "Is he your friend or something? You wouldn't know that." His eyes, hard and rueful, swivelled back to Ragar. "I've seen what they're capable of." A scowl creased his face and turned his lips into ugly shapes. "They don't give a damn as long as they have something to feed themselves with — they're parasites."

Ragar's gaze remained steadily trained forward, his voice placid. "I understand there has been an unfortunate history between us nobles and you humans, but I do not mean to threaten you by being in this space."

"Well you are. Leave."

"You have no right—! He is a patron of this place, like any other." She stepped right up to the man, and though he towered over, her pride was taller.

The music waned drearily and was replaced by hushed gossip and awkward shuffling. In the backgroud, the creak of the door signalled the quiet, hurried departure of a few patrons.

"Why are you defending him?" He snarled at her, both offended and utterly confused. "Are you in a contract? Has the noble twisted your mind?"

"I have done no such thing." Ragar pushed himself off of the wall. He looked at the man squarely. "Nor will I ever do such a thing. Miss Arya is as free as you are."

The man's lips lifted in snarl. "That's what you say. You can say anything. There's no way we can trust any one of you. Just last month, another missing person — a child. They say he wandered into the Northern woods and got picked off by wild animals, but our search teams have combed through that place. An animal would leave behind something — bones, remains, tracks — but we've still found nothing."

"You have my sympathies. I understand how such a situation can cause you to become—"

A drink was flung in his face. It soaked his mask and the front of his shirt and dripped off the ends of his hair. Ragar blinked the liquid out of his eyes and stared forward, silent.

"I don't need your sympathies," the man growled. "Just leave."

"I...understand." Ragar bowed his head and stepped away.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

There was a sudden clamor. A heavy thud against the wall. Shuffling and the deafening thunk of the cup against the floor. The man had been viciously shoved back, Arya's arm tensed against his chest. Her other hand hovered over the dagger on her hip, anxious and well aware of the possibility of being overpowered.

"You're just going to let him treat you like this, Ragar?" she hissed, her eyes ablaze, her scowl animal-like. "Some weakling like him? You could crush him with a thought and yet you—"

"Miss Arya, we should avoid causing—"

She staggered back at the force of the man's swing.

A shadow of fury overcame the man's expression. His voice became quiet, simmering. "Defending someone like him...you're just as bad." The floorboard shuddered under him as he lunged for her, fingers curled until his knuckles were white.

He crashed to the floor, swatted away like nothing. Ragar stood between him and Arya. "I believe I have been patient with your behavior," he began, quiet and ominously subdued. "But if you wish to bring Miss Arya any harm, you will not be forgiven, good sir."

The man's face twisted in tragedy. His color rose, heated. For a moment, a demon seemed to consume his very soul, enraged at whatever gods may or may not be. He was possessed by fire. Then, suddenly, as if waking up in a cool pool of still water, it all melted away. The creases in his expression smoothed out and he appeared strangely calm as he lowered his head. "Will you forgive a question from me, then?" he murmured.

Ragar considered him. "What do you wish to ask?"

The man looked at Arya, standing to Ragar's side, poised to fight or flee. "What is she to you?"

Ragar blinked. After a long moment, he tugged at his mask. "She is...like a daughter to me."

He grinned. "Then you should understand what I'm about to do," he said. "I trust that you'll forgive this as well..."

* * *

"Mister Frankenstein!" A Central Knight burst into the room. The door swung open with such force that its handles pressed divots into the wall, much to Frankenstein's dismay. The knight sunk away from his intense gaze but collected himself enough to report. "A noble has gotten into a fight with the humans."

Frankenstein frowned. His afternoon tea with Master effectively ruined. "And you didn't stop this?"

"It's a clan leader."

* * *

Some were fleeing the building, others scrambled for a chance to watch the spectacle unfold, some clamoring for the downfall of one or another. A couple particularly heroic or perhaps foolish people had jumped into the fray themselves.

Frankenstein stepped onto the floor and his powers rumbled over the ground, dispersing electric waves that spread out and reflected off of the walls, announcing his presence and carving out his territory.

"Ragar! Put him down!"

A hush fell over the scene. People held still, all eyes now pinpointed on Frankenstein.

Ragar, arm extended and holding a man by his collar, unfurled his fingers and let the human fall to the ground unceremoniously. He straightened, returning his limbs close to his body such that he took up as little space as possible again.

Frankenstein surveyed the environment. A cracked table, a man clutching a broken hand on the floor, a girl's wide, pensive stare, and Ragar's own subdued, ashamed expression. Frankenstein nodded to the injured human. "Someone take him to the clinic." Then, he turned curtly to Ragar. "You, you're coming with me."

Frankenstein turned on his heel, trusting Ragar to follow without question or fanfare. As he stepped past the threshold of the door, a wailing erupted from behind him.

"Give him back, give him back to me!" a man shouted at the ground so that his voice echoed back and boomed towards the heavens. He was grovelling, weeping. "Give me back my son!"

Frankenstein glanced over his shoulder, and he spotted Ragar, silent and frozen still, eyes wide with a sudden understanding.

Ragar spun around, hair sharply whipping behind him. He stepped towards the man on the ground, holding himself tall and honorably. "It is not mere vapid politeness when I say I sympathize with your grief." His eyes were downcast, serious and melancholic. "I cannot promise to return your child, but I have harmed you, and this, I am able to repay." Ragar held out his hand, and Kartas's dark, ominous edge whispered to life in his grasp.

Frankenstein's lips pulled flat. "Ragar, what are you—"

He pressed the blade to himself. A long arc was sliced into Ragar's torso. Blood splattered onto the floor, bright, graphic, and glistening. Then he lowered his hand and dismissed his soul weapon and turned back around to Frankenstein to follow him out of the door. "My...condolences," Ragar whispered behind him to the man.

"You can keep your condolences. He's not dead...He's not dead..."

The two continued on, leaving the establishment and watched by a crowd startled and in awe.

* * *

Their usual clearing of forest, where the earth had been shifted and turned over and over again and the trees splintered and scarred, greeted them with the incessent call of cicadas. The sky was deep blue and becoming deeper as the late afternoon drew to a close.

Frankenstein sat on a treestump, his elbows on his knees. Ragar stood stiffly by.

Frankenstein sighed, lowering his head so that his hair slid off of his shoulders. He rubbed a hand over his chin. "Three missing persons in three months, tension is expected. It'd be best if you don't show your face around those parts for the time being." He looked up at him, shoulders relaxing somewhat but his expression remained somber. "I've been doing my own investigations...I believe the Tradio Clan and the Kravei Clan are involved. I'll be bringing my concerns to the Lord and Raskreia and will ask Master to accompany me as well, though I hope to keep his involvement in this matter minimal."

"I will be heading to the Lord's palace tonight and can relay your intent to him, Frankenstein."

"Much appreciated."

Ragar nodded. Then, he disappeared with the passing breeze.

The stars, however, remained in Frankenstein's company as he returned to the Noblesse's manor.


	8. Chapter 8

Against candlelight, a girl gripped her sharp, dark dagger. She pressed the blade against the soft skin of her wrist. Slicing open a red line, she made a blood offering to no one.

* * *

The Lord leaned forward, his hair falling over his shoulders. “He wishes to meet with me and Raskreia?”

Ragar nodded with his eyes half closed. "Regarding the human disappearances."

He tilted his head, and the ponderous appearance he wore was no doubt intentional if not performative. “Why has he not simply come here himself then?”

“Perhaps he must make preparations at home,” Ragar replied, keeping his gaze obediently low, as was his tirelessly respectful nature, but he did not miss the slight upwards tilt on his Lord’s lips.

“I’d say, why don’t we make things easier for Frankenstein? Come, Ragar. You will accompany the princess and myself.” He stood up, his cloak and hair fluttering with the motion, like he had willed every part of himself enchantingly alive. "We will set upon _his_ house."

“Right away, my Lord?”

“Right away.”

It was one of those rare occasions—an outing beyond the palace grounds for the Lord, a living monument to drift ghost-like through Lukedonia.

* * *

The house loomed before them, inky pointed towers against the already dark sky. It appeared both ominous and sacred in the dark, but the Lord was not one for such grandiose associations and so swung open the door with his own psychic ability, as if he had determined the physical use of his hands for such a menial task superfluous. He stepped inside casually, flanked on either side by Raskreia and Ragar.

They had not gone very far down the hall before Frankenstein struck an oil lamp on a table against the wall with a spark that instantaneously seared the wick. The lamp—a pinpoint orange glow that partially illuminated their faces and painted curious shadows with flickering edges.

“You know...it’s rather rude to go breaking into someone’s home in the middle of the night.” Frankenstein sneered. “A knock would have sufficed.”

The Lord chuckled. He gestured outwardly, making a show of his friendliness. “Oh, but look at all the trouble I’ve saved you. Now you needn’t open the door for us.”

"How considerate," Frankenstein flatly stated. "What is it that you and your flock are here for? I wasn't aware that I had invited you all to a tea party."

The Lord smiled, his teeth catching the light. "Do not be surprised by how considerate I am, Frankenstein. I am here for your convenience." He nodded, self assured. "Ragar has informed me you wish to speak to us about recent events."

Within the second of silence that passed, Frankenstein's haughty expression turned as serious as stone. He nodded. "I'll admit you have praiseworthy timing. Let's speak elsewhere more appropriate."

The four of them drifted silently through the house, led by Frankenstein to the familiar room with the familiar window and its familiar resident.

Frankenstein swept into a bow upon entering. “Master,” he greeted, like tradition.

“Sir Raizel.”

“Raizel.”

“Raizel!” The Lord stepped forward, smile wide and arms opened wider for a friendly embrace that would never come.

Raizel dipped his head towards the crowd.

“So, business,” Frankenstein began. “The recent human disappearances are troubling, to say the least, and I believe I have a lead.” From his pocket, he retrieved a small glass vial. A dark red liquid had sunk to the bottom while a clear, pale yellow liquid had risen to the top half. He pointed to the yellow—“This is plasma.” He pointed to the red—“This is red blood.” Frankenstein smiled. “Fresh from the lab; I was just about to bring it to you.” He lowered his hands as his expression returned again to being severe. “When I was investigating the woods that two of the kidnappings are suspected to have taken place in, I came across a spattering of blood on the ground and on some foliage. After collecting it as best as I could, I managed to separate the blood from the other debris, as you see here. Further tests revealed that this is mutant blood, or at the very least, blood of someone in a contract, clearly indicating noble involvement. The area of these crimes straddle the Kravei and the Tradio lands.”

Raskreia’s eagle-like gaze darted to the vial in Frankenstein’s gloved hand. “You say that is blood. If you no longer need it in your possession, I will take it.”

Frankenstein’s brows tilted upwards at her curt seriousness as he let out an amused sigh. “Very well.” The glass glinted—flickered with moonlight—as it flew through the air before being deftly snatched by the other half of the Noblesse.

Without commentary, Raskreia uncapped the vial and tilted the contents down her throat. Her eyes luminesced a ruby red that then faded like a dying breath. “Kravei bound,” she said. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. "But the blood is not fresh enough for me to determine which of the clan is responsible."

The Lord clapped his hands together, calling all to sudden attention. "Excellent work, Raskreia." He crossed his arms and lifted his chin. "Now, I know it is tempting to simply go knocking on the Kravei door to demand answers, but, I hear there are alternative methods of obtaining information." He leaned forward, smiling like a crescent moon, full of wonder and mischief, shadow shapes shifting on his dark cloak. "I'd say, why don't we start our own little conspiracy right here?"

Bemusement crossed Frankenstein's face. Ragar glanced up.

The Lord continued. "We've always done everything so officially, so openly. We march right up to people, we ask them questions, and we expect that they will always be truthful. We announce ourselves and expect those who are both innocent and guilty to wait for us. How naive, wouldn't say?"

Frankenstein blew out a puff of air, amused and indicative of his agreement.

"What do you suggest, Lord?" Raskreia inquired.

He turned to her, smiling that benign smile. "Would curious minds like to know?" The Lord nodded, habitually answering his own question. "It is clear our offenders are working in some level of secrecy. I believe it is only fair that we do so as well. Disguise, deception, and discreetness will be new methods in our arsenal."

Ragar glanced up. "Are these not dishonorable means, my Lord?"

The Lord paused considerately as he still maintained his pleasant, friendy countenance. "What is honor to you, Ragar?"

"To carry out the will of Lukedonia, Lord."

The Lord's lips flattened. The weight of his stare became heavy on Ragar's shoulders. "You deceive yourself, Ragar. How disappointing."

Hurriedly, Ragar bowed, the line of his shoulders tense. His eyes darted strictly to the wooden floor, keeping his gaze as distant as the the canyon between Lord and clan leader. "My Lord, I apologize—"

He held up his hand to silence him. "There is no need," the Lord told him.

Those words did not dispell the troubled expression in Ragar's eyes.

"What I am in need of is a co-conspirator. Will you be willing, _my loyal Ragar?_" The Lord smiled again.

Ragar blinked as the Lord's quiet words pierced his psyche. Still lowered in a bow, he looked up at him like facing the warmth of the sun. "Yes, my Lord," he breathed with absolute conviction, like _his Lord _was his very breath.

The Lord nodded slowly and deeply. "Then, keep yourself hidden, be cautious of whom you reveal your intentions to, and be observant. Thoroughly acquaint yourself with the Kravei Clan and their movements and report any findings to us, Ragar. However, none should know what we have arranged here."

Ragar took all of this in with the steady, reverent silence of someone accepting the Lord's word. Then, he dipped his head low again, long hair trailing downwards. Ragar placed a hand over his chest.

"I hear and obey the Lord."

The Lord smiled tenderly for him. "Indeed, my loyal Ragar..."

* * *

The early sun filtered through leaves of indoor plants and speckled the opposing wall and table with bright spots of light. Frankenstein set the tray down and stirred sugar into his master's tea. "You are still here?"

Raskreia turned to him from her seat. "Is the Noblesse not welcomed in her own house?"

Frankenstein smirked wryly. "It is just unexpected to see you here for an extended stay."

"I may come and go as I please."

"Of course." He carefully placed the teacup before Raizel. "There is something I would like to discuss with you, however, so it is convenient that you are still here."

Raizel gracefully accepted the tea.

Frankenstein straightened. "Whatever becomes of this situation, whoever the criminals may be, I would like for my master to avoid involvement, if possible."

"The Noblesse cannot avoid their duties, Frankenstein," Raizel stated. The cup was held just a moment before his lips.

"Please, if there needs to be any sentencing, let Sir Raskreia and myself fulfill such things. I am your Bonded, Master. My will rests within yours. I am your spear and shield, at your command. Let me fulfill my duties as well, Master." He bowed his head.

Raskreia, her own head held ever high, looked upon Raizel with prideful authority. Swiftly, she stood. "Your servant seems to be sentimental towards you. However you command him and by whose body you wish to fulfill the duties of the Noblesse is not my concern." She turned away and stepped towards the door. "But I will ensure that justice befalls Lukedonia regardless of your decision, Brother." Raskreia nodded her silent goodbye and disappeared beyond the frame of the door, off to loftier places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have switched from using "Lady" to using "Sir" as a genderless term of deference, which better suits the asexual, agender, androgynous nobles headcanon I like. (Recently watched Hellsing Ultimate and the use of genderless Sir is Hot.)


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